


shelter

by swishandflickwit



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, Identity Reveal, Marichat, Marichat au, Miraculous Ladybug AU, SADrien, angsty, but also fluffy, but good vibes all around, flangsty??, marichat fan fiction, marichat ff, marichat fluff, miraculous ladybug fan fiction, miraculous ladybug ff, ml au, ml fan fiction, ml ff, sadrien feels, so this has morphed into a story of, sort of lol - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-09-01 19:05:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16771051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swishandflickwit/pseuds/swishandflickwit
Summary: Marinette and Chat Noir get caught up—in the rain and in each other.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise, surprise—a different OTP but the same song influence haha! So title taken from Promise by Ben Howard.

_"Really?”_

Chat Noir groaned as a drop of water splashed onto his cheek. So deceptively innocent, that singular bead of cool liquid against his heated skin. It would have been a welcoming sensation too, had one not turned into two then three—until the heavens saw fit to truly showcase its displeasure in a torrential downpour that left him shivering and drenched even with the protection of his suit.

Behind him, Ladybug giggled.

“Kitty cat doesn't like to get wet, does he?” she shook her head in mock disappointment, looking perfectly content with her bangs plastered to her forehead and raindrops dappling her eyelashes. “How ordinary of you.”

She so rarely initiated their banter that were it any other day, he would have rejoiced at such a comment, never mind that it had been at his expense. Perhaps he would have quipped with a flirty smirk and a daring _now let me show you how_ extra _ordinary I can be._ As it was, the weather might as well have been a testament to his mood and so he had no desire to exchange quips.

“Don't you? I thought ladybugs weren't fond of the cold,” he shot back albeit in a tired manner.

“True,” she replied quietly, “but I happen to love the rain, even before I became, well, _this._ ”

The words sounded playful but the sudden absence of mirth from her tone told him she sensed the abrupt shift in his demeanor. Her concern was a heady weight on his shoulders as he felt her step closer to him. It was almost enough to compel him to turn around and apologize for his cold behavior. But…

_“Chaton?”_

He shook his head. “Not now, Ladybug.”

Without glancing back to see her expression (he was certain he wouldn't be able to carry himself if he saw her features twisted in hurt because of how poorly he had acted, but he just needed to be _away_ ), he bounded. Over the ledge of the rooftop they had been on, landing smoothly on the roof of a lower building, and on and on and on as he had no real destination in mind.

The mansion was out of the question—the place more prison than home, possessing a frigidness that had nothing to do with the rain but was all the more potent for it. Because no amount of his cook's world-class hot chocolates or the piles of comfy sheets from the multitude of linen closets that littered the rooms could erase the perpetual feeling of cold that filled his house, so vast and so achingly, _achingly_ empty yet suffocating too. He was drowning in his own supposed sanctuary—in silence, in loneliness, and in memories that should have filled him with happiness but only served to remind him of the void in his heart. Shaped like that of his father whom he hardly saw, then of his mother, and the Adrien he could have been had she not left him behind—passionate and alight instead of this straggling, broken, thing, fumbling through his dreary days with only fractions of himself.

(It was any wonder he kept attaching himself to Ladybug, whom he was assured of was his other half, despite her steady rebuffs of his affections—just _anything_ to feel even marginally whole)

He hated how conscious he was of every frosty sluice that wiggled its way along the planes of his body, snuggling into every line and corner of his skin, over and under his suit, and the tendrils of his hair from root to scalp till he felt submerged beneath an ocean—but he hated the thought of the solitude that would greet him at the mansion even _more._ So though he was sure to get an earful from Plagg once he detransformed, he continued his aimless wandering throughout the city. At least people on the streets waved when they saw him, their smiles filling that hole in his heart with soft embers however temporary it was, so long as it tempered the frost in his veins. Perhaps he could perform a solo patrol, no matter that the most recent Akuma had been dealt with a little under an hour ago. He might assist the local officers who were managing petty crimes or the regular bystander with a menial task, someone like—

_Marinette?_

There was no mistaking her, he'd know those bobbing pigtails anywhere, even if they _were_ soaked and plastered to the skin of her neck. Her brows were furrowed the way they did when she was frustrated though her pace betrayed this, her walk measured and leisurely, he nearly forgot it was pouring. Her gaze was trained on the pavement with narrowed concentration, as if the muggy cobblestones held the relief to her vexation and would offer it if she _looked_ hard enough.

The rain may have been uncomfortable for him but it did possess that seductive allure of quiet security as it casted everything in a lethargic haze. She looked so small and so soft, granted she _was_ both those things—

But even against the misty haze of the afternoon deluge, _she_ stood out.

In all honesty, she looked adorable and he couldn’t help it.

He chuckled.

Chat Noir made sure to let it all out because she may have been petite but Marinette gave as good as she got, and it was a _lot._ Most days it tickled him, she was such an enigma and he was eager to puzzle her out. Other times, it saddened him, that she could be so bold and impassioned with everyone except him, or the _Adrien_ him at least. He thought they were long since past grudging first impressions but that didn’t explain the constant shyness around him. Was it because she could sense that his civilian self was the true mask and Chat Noir the more comfortable, open side of him? Marinette radiated genuineness, after all. It made sense that she wouldn’t take kindly to insincerity from anyone, least of all him. All of a sudden he understood her reservation—thought that he deserved it even.

He sighed and willed the gloomy thoughts to go away, no matter how much the dreary weather attempted to drive them to the forefront of his mind.

Deciding that he had watched her unnoticed long enough, he pounced to the building ahead of where she was walking and prowled on soundless feet down the fire escape, just in time to greet her upside down from where he was hanging upon the suspended ladder.

He smirked when she shrieked in a rather undignified manner, halting her steps gruffly so they wouldn't collide.

 _“Chat Noir!”_ she scolded once she had recovered, her hands bound in fists atop her hips and her head cocked to the side as she glared at him through slitted, blue eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he returned as he flipped and landed on the balls of his feet right in front of her. “I saw you and thought I'd _drop_ by.”

He waggled his eyebrows. She was evidently not amused but that didn’t stop his mouth from twisting into a smug grin.

“I thought you were going home?”

“What made you think that?”

Her eyes widened, almost comically, and he gave her a curious look for it. “B-because the Akuma… I-I mean _you_ … defeated it, right?”

His curiosity melted into concern as she turned into a flustered sight before him, the Marinette he was more familiar with as Adrien.

“Were you nearby?” he stepped closer, grasping at her shoulders and trying to be level-headed while surreptitiously scanning her for injuries. “Were you _hurt?_ Is that why you’re walking so slowly?”

Whatever had frazzled her seemed to have evaporated along with what little of his good humor had remained. But her face softened, and so did the tense set of her shoulders that he was unaware of till it was sagging beneath his palms. Her hands cupped his elbows as she calmly coaxed his grip from its firm grasp on her shoulders, till his hold too rested on her elbows.

“No, _chaton,_ ” she whispered against the skin of his cheek as she placed a light kiss there. He breathed a sigh of relief. “I locked myself inside the fabric store I was visiting around the area, after helping some other passersby, of course—” he grunted because _of course she did,_ “—and afterwards, I decided to walk home. I just… I happen to love the rain.”

A soft smile stole across her lips and everything about her felt so familiar then—her voice, her face, even her _words,_ and the pieces of him that were shattered tingled in excitable recognition. Her presence seemed to fill the hollow spaces he thought only Ladybug or his mother could occupy but never would because had he ever been worth staying for? Would he ever be _enough?_

Perhaps he wouldn’t be. But when he was near Marinette, he forgot about all that. She made him feel like he would be okay, that maybe he was deserving of affection despite how lacking he was.

So he kissed her forehead and rubbed at the soaked clothes covering her biceps when he felt her shiver. “Why am I always catching you in the rain?” he murmured. She pulled away, just enough so she could look at him without getting cross-eyed, a question painted on her visage. He merely gave her a secretive smile that in no way assuaged her.

He remembered that day well.

Even before he had been bequeathed the Miraculous, he'd had an aversion to rain that only magnified when he became Chat Noir. The rain wasn't as bad then as it was now, but he carried an umbrella with him the moment he saw the cloudy skies that morning. Giving it to Marinette at the expense of his comfort had been more than making amends. From the beginning he was intrigued by her—with the fervor and spirit she defended herself and others. He was captivated by her even then, a captivation that only intensified as time wore on and she seemed to open to him, more so when he was Chat Noir. But that instance beneath the cloudburst had been the genesis of them, and it was meaningful to him as she'd been one of the first friends he made, the first to have shared belly-aching, lighthearted laughter with. He often tried to (jokingly) sneak into her room to peek if she had kept his black umbrella—if the memory held a semblance of significance to her like it did to him. Speaking of...

He brought out his baton and after a few clicks, transformed it into an umbrella, and hoped that would serve as a better distraction from his earlier slip. He was not wrong.

“I didn't know your baton could do that.”

“There’s a lot of things you don't know about it,” he replied with a devious twinkle in his eye. “I could show you what else my _baton_ is capable of.” He winked at her and she shoved him. He laughed heartily, having been subjected to her exasperation many times before for similar quips, expecting it and enjoying it even. For all her eye rolls and snippy huffs, they were infinitesimal compared to the smiles and the giggles she occasionally bestowed upon him if he was particularly clever.

(He endeavoured to always be clever)

“It's not something I broadcast. Not even Ladybug knows about it, I think. I gotta have _some_ secrets to myself.”

“Yet you just shared it with me,” she prompted, teasing. He shrugged.

“I trust you,” he answered honestly because in that he had no doubt.

Straightening from his feigned wounded crouch, he propped the umbrella between them. Struck, and perhaps humbled from his pronouncement, she wrapped her fingers around the arm he offered her as he murmured, “I think it's time I took this princess home.”

She wrinkled her nose and he barely refrained from bopping it with his finger cause it meant they'd have to let go. But ugh, she was so damn _cute._

“You always call me that.”

They began the trek to her residence and where he was once apprehensive of her dilatory gait, he was now grateful as it meant he got to spend more time with her.

At her observation, he offered another shrug. “You always call me kitten,” he pointed out.

 _You and Ladybug,_ now that he thought about it.

“That’s because you _are_ one, _minou._ ”

As if to emphasize her point, she reached up and scratched at the spot behind his cat ear that he dearly loved and he was helpless against the purr that emitted from him. When she withdrew with a giggle, he pouted.

“Does it bother you?”

That was the last thing he wanted her to be, but she shook her head and smiled reassuringly.

“Well, if not a princess then what?”

It was her turn to shrug. “I don't know. I mean, I'm… just Marinette.”

She wasn't _just_ anything but he didn't voice that. Instead, he said, “Okay, _just_ Marinette. You may not see yourself as a princess, but you’ll always have a loyal knight in me.”

It was the corniest thing he had ever said yet, and though he meant it in good humor it came out more staid than he intended. He felt a blush rise to his cheeks. He and Marinette had held conversations in the past, more often as Chat Noir than as Adrien, and both were appreciated by him all the same. Being around her made him feel safe, made him feel _seen._ When crippling forlornness threatened to suffocate him, it was Marinette he turned to for solace. Though she made it easy to talk, they had never ventured into such poignant territory.

 _God damn rain,_ he grumbled, for he was sure it was responsible for the vulnerability it provoked within him. As if privy to his thoughts, lightning erupted in the sky, followed closely by thunder. He barely suppressed the urge to mewl, however he did shudder. Was it too much to ask that Marinette not notice?

She clicked her tongue. “Is my brave knight afraid of a little thunder?”

Apparently, it was.

“No,” he muttered petulantly.

“It's okay,” she giggled, giving his arm a genial squeeze. I'll protect you if you protect me.”

It was a susurrous promise in his ear that had his heart both thudding and reposing. So he wasn't the only one affected by the stupor brought on by the rain.

“Always,” he vowed softly.

She smiled, enchanting and lovely, and huddled closer to his side. With her chin resting on his shoulder, he let out a contented sigh. The rest of the walk continued in agreeable silence—both so at ease with each other’s presence that there was no need for words, the shrieking pitter-patter of the rain the soundtrack to their stroll.

Dread, however, churned an angry storm in his stomach at the growing sight of the Dupain-Cheng Bakery. He didn't want to leave her, an impetus that constantly emerged whenever he visited her at night and one that was even larger in the light of day. As an Agreste, there was a lot he could possess with a mere word or snap of his finger, and still there was little he treasured more than the friendships he'd formed since he began public school. If this walk in the drenched and desolate Parisian streets had taught him anything it's that Marinette's companionship, even if it was with Chat Noir, was something he most coveted—had learned to rely on. He resolved to make more of an effort with her when he was Adrien, propriety and his father’s expectations be damned. He was most himself when he was with Marinette and with Ladybug too but as it was, it was her preference to keep their personal lives separate—and it was high time he wore off the mask with at least one of the two most important women in his life.

With that decision in mind, the ball of anxiety in his gut loosened albeit by a miniscule knot. He supposed it would have to do. Marinette was leading him to the front door of the building's abode where he would be dropping her off and he would have to go home some time if he didn’t want Nathalie or god forbid his _father_ to notice his absence and Plagg was bound to be getting tired now and—

“What are you doing?” he exclaimed in utter bewilderment as she opened her door without letting go of him then proceeded to use her grip to drag him through the entrance. He dug his heels in but to his surprise, she was astuciously strong. “What’s happening right now?”

She gave him a look that clearly conveyed how idiotic she thought he was.

“Do you honestly think I'm going to let you back out in this weather?”

“I’ve got my baton and my suit will keep me warm.”

“Your little parasol—”

“Hey!” So his baton-brella was shiny. It was sleek and still _very_ manly.

“—will do you no good. You _hate_ the rain!”

Was he that obvious? He shot an apprehensive look at the door adjacent to the entryway, where the bakery lay.

“What about your parents?”

“Mama!” she called as she took off her shoes and placed them in a closet just across. “Papa!”

Adrien felt his eyes widen and full-blown panic bloomed in his chest. He gestured wildly at Marinette, limbs flailing in what he hoped she took as a sign to _‘abort, abort!’_ but she hardly batted an eye at his antics.

He inched further from the entrance.

Through the wooden doorway that was the bakery’s back entrance, a booming voice replied. “Daughter, is that you?”

Rolling her eyes, Marinette crossed her arms and huffily replied, “Unless you have another child I don't know about hidden away somewhere here then yes! It's me!”

Under her breath, she whined, “He does this _every_ time, who else would call him papa?”

He wanted to chortle, but all he managed was a shaky chuckle that died down anyway when the door opened to reveal the bear of a man that was Marinette's father. He bore an imposing figure, one to match Gorilla's for sure, and at first glance Adrien had been intimidated. But then he affected such a joyous air, punctuated by the smile perpetually etched on his face—piercing even through his groomed, handlebar moustache—that it was hard to imagine him as anything other than a gentle giant that radiated the sun.

“It _is_ you!” he vociferated with unnecessary dramatic flair, sweeping Marinette into a hug that lifted her off her feet before he unceremoniously dropped her. “Ew, wet!”

Marinette cackled. “Serves you right.” Then she executed a delightful hop to kiss her father on the cheek, careful not to get any more of her damp clothes on him. He received it with an outstretched chin and a broad, close-lipped smile, as if there was no better bounty than to be in Marinette’s presence.

Adrien's heart swelled. He knew the feeling well.

But then Tom trained his gaze on him and he felt the goofy grin that had dominated his mouth slip as his nerves returned.

He may have been around adults most of his life but he'd never had to meet parents, with the exception of Chloé's father and even that felt so far removed from this situation. He'd never had the chance, the _luxury,_ to have the kind of friends that invited him over to their houses. Not to mention the implications of Marinette bringing a boy home, and not to toot his own horn or anything, but when he was Chat Noir he was no regular boy.

He was suddenly grateful he got caught in the rain as his dampness hid the way sweat beaded at his temples.

“I see you've brought home a stray,” he observed, his manner gruff. Adrien blanched.

He tried to sound suave, and later he would despair at his lack of a backbone, but for now all he could manage was a squeaky, “M-monsieur Dupain!”

Marinette’s mouth was puckered though he couldn't tell whether it was in a pout or in pitifully contained joviality at his expense. “Be nice, papa.” She scolded airily. “It was raining cats and dogs out there, I might as well drag one in.”

“Marinette?” Adrien whispered. “Marinette, _Marinette._ ” He was so dumbfounded with awe he forgot to be terrified. “Did you just make two cat jokes in _one_ sentence?”

Monsieur Dupain's exploding laughter was enough answer for him, and he found himself joining in the chortles when the man clapped a hand to his shoulder and Marinette finally, finally graced him with that toothy grin he loved so much—the one that felt like every bit of light in the world came from her smile, the one he now knew she inherited from her father, who gave his hair a ribbing shuffle.

“At ease, son,” he spoke good-naturedly. “It's not everyday Chat Noir escorts my daughter home safely from the rain. You have my thanks.”

He didn't realize he was leaning into Tom's hand until the man pulled away from petting his locks. He trained his gaze to the floor. He bit his lip and shifted in his place, uncharacteristically shy at the praise when he would normally lap at any attention—the sincerity in the pronouncement, so like Marinette, disarming him. He was saved from having to stutter a reply when monsieur Dupain concentrated on Marinette.

“And you! My clever, clever girl.” He gave her a smacking kiss on the forehead that had her blushing from her scalp to her delicate neck. Adrien found himself grinning as he relaxed.

“Next thing you know, you'll be punning,” his grin sharpened into a smirk. “I'll make sure of it.”

“‘Punning’ is not a word,” she retorted haughtily before adding, “and in your dreams, kitty.” It was snarky but the comment had no real edge to it, not when they were all dissolving into bubbly giggles.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng!” someone admonished from the top of the staircase, effectively silencing all three of them. “Did you get caught in the rain, _again?_ ”

Quick as a whip, madame Cheng went down the steps on light feet, one towel slung over her shoulder and another spread on her hands, which she promptly flung towards the sopping mess that was Marinette. She rubbed vigorously at her head so that when she pulled away, Marinette’s hair was a curling, frizzing mass of midnight tendrils. Beside him, monsieur Dupain released a snicker that fell just as quickly as it rose when madame Cheng’s disapproving stare landed on him.

“Tom!” she clicked her tongue and cocked her hip, a perfect echo of Marinette in irritation that he would have smiled if his nerves hadn't returned tenfold. “Can’t you see her shaking? She'll catch her death standing here, they both will!”

It was then he noticed he was still standing at the threshold of their dwelling, loitering around like the stray monsieur Dupain teased he was. He figured it was time he took his leave, he didn't want Marinette to get sick either and standing at the open door with the wind gusting in surely wasn't helping. He glanced at the solemn skies and quivered in his boots. He wouldn't enjoy the trudge back but Adrien knew enough about social graces to tell when he had overstayed his welcome. Knocking his heels together with a jittery jerk, he was about to give a two-fingered salute when madame Cheng threw the second towel over _his_ head.

His vision obscured by fluffy, white cotton, he had no choice but to double over as Marinette's mother dried his head, surprisingly mindful of his cat ears as she patted him in a significantly more gentle manner than she did Marinette. Honestly, he didn't know whether to purr or laugh. In his befuddlement, he did an odd combination of both and emitted a rather choked yowl as he tried to duck away from her.

“Er, madame Cheng,” he started, stricken breathless at the strange turn of events when she finally let up and closed the door behind him. “This… this isn't necessary.”

Yet he found himself clinging to the towel around his neck where she left it after moving from his hair to mildly pat at his face. And though he stayed by the entryway, he did not motion to leave.

“Nonsense! I won't have one half of Paris’ superhero duo roving in this awful weather when he can be perfectly snug in here!”

As if privy to madame Cheng's ire—outside, lightning split the sky followed by a clap of thunder so roaring he felt it rattle his bones. He grit his teeth.

“If you think Akumas are bad…” monsieur Dupain goaded after glancing at Adrien, no doubt noticing his discomfort. He wanted to be embarrassed but found he was more grateful for the facetiousness, if not wary of madame Cheng's reaction. Marinette and her father had no such qualms, though she did bite her lip to stifle the guffaw that threatened to spill from her lips.

“Children,” madame Cheng deadpanned. “I have _two_ children.”

Tom hummed, pressing a doting kiss on his wife's forehead that, judging by the way the corners of her mouth tilted up, negated his erstwhile badinage.

“Well, lucky for both of you—you're just in time for dinner,” she stated. “I know it's leftover night but I couldn't resist making wanton noodle soup—” _damn,_ he speculated. That sounded, and now that he thought about it, smelled, _divine,_ “—nothing like a little home-cooked brew to heat the cockles on days like these, _oui?_ And there's all that extra catering food from the other day, that one's Italian so you bet we have a little bit of everything—pasta, pizza, bread, you name it. I've got chopsuey for veggies and some coq a vin too, if you wanted? You're staying for dinner, of course.”

“Sabine, _mamour,_ ” monsieur Dupain said behind an amused smile, “let the boy speak. Maybe decide for himself, hmm?”

All three Dupain-Chengs whipped their heads towards him and he felt sheepish at their concentration. He looked to Marinette, who merely shrugged haplessly before smirking. He wanted to stick his tongue out at her but restrained himself out of respect for her parents. She was throwing him out to the wolves here! Not that they were wolves, it was just—

“I wouldn't want to intrude…”

Madame Cheng laid a comforting hand on his arm, her smile welcoming as she murmured, “You are not intruding, Chat Noir.”

“But—”

Just then, his stomach growled. Like, literally _growled._ There was no other word for the monstrous gurgle that emanated from him.

He slapped a hand to his middle just as Marinette could no longer repress herself and cracked up, her derision long time building. Monsieur Dupain clapped a hand over his mouth. Madame Cheng was chastising her daughter, to no avail (the traitor), though her eyes and mouth were tight with laugh lines. His face felt like it was on fire.

“I guess that answers that question,” monsieur Dupain mused out loud.

He wanted to die.

Adrien tried to draw on all the bravado Chat Noir's anonymity afforded him. But they weren't Akumatized victims that needed distracting. These were Marinette's parents and he wanted to charm them, not irritate them. They'd had few interactions when he was his civilian self, nonexistent when he was Chat Noir, today notwithstanding. But even with the limited opportunities for conversation, he all ready knew he adored them the way he adored Marinette.

He liked them, and desired for them to like him.

Did the situation call for his superhero persona then? Chat Noir was boisterous and charismatic, not to say that he wasn't when he was only Adrien. But such moments blossomed when he was around friends and even then, it was significantly more reserved than Chat. He had been in public school for just shy of two years now, so it was no surprise that he fell back on Adrien in times of doubt, drawing on years of formal, etiquette training as he straightened his spine, folded his hands behind his back and gave them a bland smile.

“I _am_ a little hungry.”

A snort. “A _little?_ ”

“Marinette!”

Madame Cheng withdrew her touch from his arm to wag a finger at Marinette who had the decency to look chagrined.

“You're having dinner. That's final.”

“Yes, madame.”

She startled. “Goodness dear, you make me sound awful old!”

“Oh,” he grimaced and refrained from rubbing at the nape of his neck. “I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, that is not my intention at all.”

“It's not really a bother,” she reassured. “But Sabine will do just fine.”

“And you can call me Tom, too. Monsieur Dupain makes me feel like my father’s right behind me!”

He chuckled and Adrien's smile became less forced.

“If it pleases you,” he murmured.

“It does,” they echoed.

Marinette glanced at him with a strange look on her face, probably questioning his formality but he couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze head on. Instead, he glimpsed at her parents. Sabine slotted herself to her husband's side as if she belonged there and only there, their bodies attuned like extensions of one another despite the glaring height difference.

Adrien tried not to stare, it was rude. He was just both flummoxed and amazed, maybe even a little sad too. To see the Dupain-Chengs so open with one another, so free with their affections—Tom winding an arm around his wife's shoulders, while Marinette clasped at his other, Sabine fussing over her with the towel once more, her tone sharp even as her eyes glowed with fondness.

A pang of longing washed over him. He had never felt more like an outsider and that was quite a feat, as Adrien lived in a constant state of isolation though he tried not to show it.

But then—Sabine extended her arm towards him.

“Come on up!”

He regarded her hand with a modicum of caution. Not at her, never at her. But what was he doing? He didn't belong here, not when he was a dark cloud of melancholy in this resplendent safe haven. He had never known such tenderness, had forgotten what it was to be cared for the way only a mother's hands could provide. He didn't want to taint this, to taint them. A selfish part of him whispered that he didn't know these people but he could be sure of one thing—everybody left.

And maybe he didn't want to be the one standing alone again.

“Chat?”

Marinette's bluebell eyes met his, and it was like staring up at a blazing, cerulean sky. He felt the harrowing, adumbration that was his tenebrous thoughts lift its foggy thrall on him.

“It's alright,” she murmured soothingly, as if she had a direct line to his head though she couldn't have possibly known what he was thinking.

“S-sorry,” he stammered. “Yes. I shall stay. Thank you for offering.”

In his state (which was, _so embarrassing_ ), he failed to notice Tom's absence, but he could hear him in the bakery. It was near seven, so it was safe to assume he had gone to lock up the shop. Sabine was on his right, patting at his cheek with the towel again as she led him by the elbow up the staircase and into their residence. On his other side, Marinette's fingers brushed his. Anyone else would have seen it as an accident but he recognized it for the sign of support it was, and not for the first time he was grateful they were friends no matter what form he took.

“So make yourself at home,” Sabine was telling. “I’ll just grab a change of clothes for you.”

_Wait, what?_

He must have said this aloud since Sabine shook her head at him. “You might get a fever if you stay in that suit any longer so let me fetch you something dry. Tom is certainly larger than you but I'm sure I can scrounge through some of his older things.”

“Mada—er, _Sabine,_ ” he corrected himself at her wayward, reproving look. “That _really_ isn't necessary.”

His ring beeped and he groaned. It seemed Plagg wasn't giving him a choice in the matter.

“You're about to detransform, Chat,” Marinette said. “I have a mask for you to wear, if your secret identity is what you're worried about. We don't want to make you uncomfortable either.”

He wasn't—worried that was. But he didn't want to put them in danger by revealing himself. And honestly, as fun as it was having Marinette as a classmate, he far preferred the moments they had together when he was Chat Noir. He didn't want that to fade, he couldn't bear the shift in those depthless orbs if she knew who he was and the distance between her and Adrien yawned between her and Chat Noir.

“Do you often have masks laying around for any superhero who visits your home?” he joked, though considerably more subdued. “And I thought I was special.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you want it or would you rather perish in this cold?”

“So dramatic,” he sighed, feigning at being put out.

“You two are too cute,” Sabine cooed. He and Marinette blushed at the reminder that they weren't alone. _Mon dieu,_ he forgot that they weren't supposed to be all that familiar with each other. Had he given them away? Her mother looked far from angry, if anything she seemed pleased.

“Stay here and keep each other company for a bit. I’ll get those clothes then you can both change.”

“Actually, mama, I've got a sweatshirt for Chat. If you could just provide the bottoms?”

“If you say so, dear.”

Sabine disappeared into a room next to the main entrance, leaving them in the living room. As soon as the door closed behind her, he whirled on Marinette, flicking his tail at her bottom. She yelped.

“Hey!”

He crossed his arms. “You don't get to hey indignantly! I do!”

Her face was a perfect picture of incredulity. “Did you just—did you just slap my _butt?_ ”

His face burned (had it ever reverted to its normal state since he got here?) at the implication.

“There was no slapping, my tail _lightly_ grazed your _derrière,_ ” he said this very quickly, “and don't change the subject!” He held firm and willed his cheeks to cool as he pasted on a stern expression. “What was that about?”

“I could ask you the same thing!” she brought a hand to her bottom. “I can't believe you slapped my butt!”

“What do you mean? It was a light graze!” he groaned. “And stop turning this around!”

“‘Yes madame’? ‘If it pleases you’? What is this, _Les Mis?_ ”

“I'd make a beautiful Cosette, true.” To emphasize this, he ruffled his golden locks like the model he was when his true aim was to douse her with tiny droplets of water. She screeched.

_“Chat!”_

“That’s just the way I talk. I call Ladybug, ‘milady', remember? It's not exactly a term of endearment you'd lump in with ‘bae’!”

“I know how you speak, but _that?_ ” she shook her head, a sudden despondency occupying her mouth, pulling down the corners in a way that made him sick to see.

 _I did that,_ he brooded.

“You were so… polite—”

“I'm nothing, if not a gentleman,” he averred, slightly affronted at the insinuation he was otherwise, though he knew that wasn't what she meant. Marinette was too discerning for her own good and he clutched the towel at his neck with both hands to quell the disquiet that rose within him at her introspective gleam.

Her frown deepened. “That's not the right word, then. You were tame?” she sighed, anxiety evident in the lines that creased her forehead as that furrow from when he first saw her reappeared with a vengeance. “You sounded… _empty._ It was—” she gulped. “It was haunting, and I'm worried about you. Is it something my parents said? Something _I_ did?”

“No,” he was quick to assuage because it was the truth and he wanted no blame to anchor her, least of all on _his_ account. “No, no.” He sensed she was far from convinced so he nuzzled first at her cheek till her breath was a balmy and measured zephyr against his skin. Only then did he move to her neck, planting a quick peck to the exposed skin above her collar before resting his forehead on her shoulder.

“It's me.”

 _All I do is cause pain,_ he wanted to say. Instead, “I just... don't like the rain.”

She brought a tentative hand up to the small of his back and rubbed small circles onto it.

“Chat…”

“I really, _really_ don't like the rain?”

She huffed, “I won't push you,” though she did soften against him, nosing at the hair by his ear as the tension lining her shoulders gradually drifted away. “But I do wish you'd tell me, _mon minou._ ”

 _My,_ she said. My _kitten._ She'd never said that before and especially not with so much gravity—so much intent and possessiveness.

_Hers._

His heart soared.

 _Yours,_ he mouthed against her flesh—he quite liked the sound of that.

It was what prompted him to confess, weighed down as he was with shame at such sentimental weakness that he couldn't find the courage to even look at her as he spoke.

So against the sanctity that was the hollow of her throat, he confided, “It was… it was raining. The day my mother…” he trailed off, unable to continue when a barrage of memories assaulted him—a rapid succession of flashing effigies he could scarcely form together and would have forgotten, were it not for the way pain tainted his recollections and tore his body every time he remembered.

She sucked in a sharp breath. “She… died?”

He laughed even if he was brimming with bitterness. “No. But I wonder if that would have been better.”

Marinette clenched his waist in reprimand, possibly shock too as she expelled a perturbed whine. “That’s not funny.”

“I didn’t think so when she left me behind, either.”

She had nothing to say for a while after that, which was fine with him. Words of consolation were inappropriate when his mother was very much alive, just... _gone._ Apologies were futile, it wasn't Marinette's fault nobody stayed for him.

For a few heartbeats they remained, his head on her shoulder and her hand on his waist, the only parts of them touching. The sweet scent of her overwhelmed him despite the prominent musk of rain that permeated the air around them. He breathed her in, and drew strength from her steady presence till the agonizing numbness withdrew from his bones and feeling returned to his knees, enough that he could stand on his own without leaning on Marinette.

Well, maybe just a little. He touched his forehead to hers.

“Everyone leaves. _Why_ do people leave?” he absently pondered aloud, when what he truly meant was, _why do people leave_ me? He hadn't really expected an answer, but Marinette had always possessed the uncanny ability to read him. In retrospect, he shouldn't have been thrown when she pushed on his shoulder and vehemently said, “She didn't deserve you, okay? Anyone who leaves _doesn't_ deserve you. But Chat, you're the most hopeful person I know. Are you honestly going to stand here and tell me everyone leaves?” She demanded. “I mean, would you? Would you leave _Ladybug?_ ”

Ladybug, who he loved. Ladybug, who was his partner and his other half. Ladybug, who wanted another and did not love him back. Ladybug…

Who he did not really know at all.

Still, the answer was a given.

“No,” he said with a sureness that she must have expected given her satisfied countenance. “I wouldn't leave her,” he answered. But with a little more softness and with utmost intentness, he added, “And I wouldn't leave _you._ ”

Her eyes widened before they lowered to the ground, a flush creeping up her cheeks as she tried to wave off his comment. He would have none of that, now. Ladybug may have taken precedence in his heart, but when the dust settled and the thrill of the adventure faded, whose presence did he truly long for? When insidious doubt slithered in his mind, whose council did he seek? Who did he want to share everything with, from the quiet moments that rarely graced his day to the hopes and dreams he envisioned for his life? Who did he most want to steal time with?

Marinette had gradually crept and crawled her way in. She buried and burrowed herself, till the gaps that made up his patchwork soul felt flowing with effulgence.

Till they were molded in the shape of her.

He tilted her chin up and she followed, though her eyes remained averted.

“Marinette,” he murmured susurrously. He moved his hand away so he could cup both her cheeks, face framed between careful claws—urging her to look up, to _see_ him. He needed her to _know._

_“Marinette.”_

She looked up then, at the urgency with which he said her name, and Adrien started, “I wouldn't leave you. Ever. I—” _I_ _what?_

What else had he been trying to say again? He rested his forehead atop hers once more, because he was a sinner seeking refuge and she felt heavenly against his skin. He wanted to thank her. He wanted to tell her that maybe his mom hadn't deserved him but he sure as hell didn't deserve Marinette. He couldn't seem to muster the right words, not when she stood on the tips of her toes so she could wrap her arms around his neck, not as she caressed the bridge of his nose with the tip of hers, nudging at the crease on his cheek and nestling there, lips finding purchase on the corner of his mouth. He could steal a kiss, or would it be a gift if she gave it freely? All he had to do was turn his head…

A jarring _crash!_ sounded, followed by a poorly muffled curse.

They sprung apart—shock dropping like an anvil between them and breaking the glass ceiling that was their potent, emotional atmosphere. Adrien bottled his instinct to dig his claws into the walls out of fright and in lieu of doing so, returned his grip to the towel around his neck. He had leapt towards the kitchen, his back hitting the island counter. Across him, Marinette had fallen over the coffee table, her legs skewedly draped on the table top and her arms sprawled over the couch’s seat cushions. She would probably be nursing a bruise come morning if the sour and disgruntled look on her face was anything to go by. He grimaced. Next to him, a pair of portly limbs stuck out from beside the floor of the island table.

He rubbed at the nape of his neck. “Er…”

“Papa?” Marinette cried from her place on the ground.

A pause before a meek, “Yes?” followed.

Monsieur Dupain remained on the linoleum as he said this and Marinette groaned. Adrien bounded to her side to offer his assistance. Her pain seemed momentarily suspended as a whole new discomfort overtook her features and her blush returned.

They—they had nearly _kissed._ Here. In the living room of her home. _In the living room of her home!_ And yet… they had _nearly_ kissed. Who had leaned into who? Did that really matter, at this point? That her parents were feet away certainly hadn't warranted any significance to them at the time.

Still, the thought came to him, unbidden—he wished they hadn't stopped.

_He wished they had kissed._

He held out his arm and she placed her hand in his. He pulled her up, but in his jittery state had underestimated his strength. She stumbled onto him and he wrapped the arm that wasn't holding her hand around her waist to steady her. When she straightened, she was flushed against him, the downy curves of her lithe, womanly frame in absolute harmony with the firm lines of his figure.

He gulped.

Whatever cold had conquered him during the rain had dissipated. He was a livewire and Marinette the spark to light the fuse—he was _ablaze._ Every nerve, muscle and cell had zeroed in on each point of contact. He inwardly swore at the way his tail flicked in response to the current of electricity that thrummed down the length of his back because it gave him away. Then again, perhaps he wasn't the only one whose actions were transparent. Perhaps he wasn't trying to hide what he was feeling from her, _because_ of her. After all, he hadn't retreated his hold around her waist.

And she didn't seem inclined to let him go.

“Don't mind me!” Tom called and with a jolt of awareness, they let go of each other. What was the _matter_ with him? He had to do stop doing this. He had to control himself, her parents were _right there_ for god's sake!

He crossed his arms to stifle the pressing need to touch her, while her hands enveloped her cheeks, as if that would be enough for her to vanquish the tell-tale signs of her bashfulness.

“What are you doing on the floor?” she asked, flabbergasted when her father didn't move from his prone position.

“I was just trying to put away some pastries.” Well, _that_ solved the mystery of where Marinette inherited her clumsiness from. “I didn't want to disturb you two so I tried to be quiet but I tripped!”

He was going to die—scratch that, he was all ready dead, and this was the ninth circle of hell where he had to endure every sort of humiliation known to teenage-kind.

Her hands now encompassed her entire face and from behind the curtain of her palms she grumbled, “You didn't have to do that, papa.”

“It's okay! I didn't see anything!”

 _Don't say it isn't what it looks like,_ he chanted to himself. _You're fine. Marinette’s fine (even if she has turned an alarming shade of red by her standards) and_ nothing _happened. Nothing here suggests that you've done something incriminating so_ don't _say it isn't what it looks like, don’t say it isn’t what it looks like, don’t say it isn’t—_

“It isn't what it looks like!”

He was an idiot.

“Chat!” Marinette griped as she balled her hands into fists at her sides as if to withhold from punching him, her glare so murderous he felt like curling into a big, mass of regretful leather. He gave her a winning smile instead, and hoped it would be enough to dim her ire.

It wasn't.

“Just pretend I’m not here!” Her father barreled on, obviously unconvinced of Adrien's words. Marinette clapped a hand over her eyes and groaned.

“Okay,” she sighed, “this has gotten way out of hand—” She took a step forward but in her temporary blindness, must have miscalculated her step because one moment she was next to him and the next, she was falling over the coffee table _again._ She would have bumped her head against the corner, but Adrien was quicker and wound an arm around her waist once more. What he hadn't anticipated _(again)_ was Marinette's strength, for just as he held her, she instinctively flailed for the closest solid thing to stop her fall.

He was the closest solid thing.

Adrien only had enough time to twist his body so that he received the brunt of the impact, landing on his back next to the coffee table with Marinette on top of him, her hands splayed on either side of his head to balance herself.

She was so red he could feel the heat emanating from her body, even through the damp cold of her clothes. He felt his own temperature rise, heedless to the pain throbbing around his shoulders and back. He should have apologized that he had allowed them both to fall, should have lent her a hand and gotten them both off the floor.

He should have let her go.

But then he tightened his arm around her middle, and he nearly purred at the soft hitch of her breath, chest to chest, her legs tangled in his, the soft skin of her—

“What is going on here?”

They turned their heads towards the source of sound and found Sabine staring down at them with a look on her face that, even upside down he could tell, was one of consummate perplexity.

She turned towards the kitchen and her eyes widened from the saucers they all ready were. “ _Tom?_ Is that you?” she took a step back and surveyed them. “What are you all doing on the _floor?_ ”

Silence met her as each one tried to prepare an explanation that would make the most sense (and would be the _least_ embarrassing version) of the past half hour.

“It isn't what it looks like!”

“Marinette!” Adrien cried, even as he swallowed a laugh. He let loose a disbelieving breath.

 _She did_ not _just say that!_

“Shut up,” she averred in sibilating tones and through gritted teeth so as not to further rouse her mother’s suspicions.

He couldn't resist teasing her.

“You just said _not_ —”

_“Shut up.”_

He did not.

“It really is, though, Sabine—what it looks like, that is.”

Marinette’s glare ascended to volcanic levels of intensity.

“What?” he insisted. “We really all _fell._ ”

“The kids were having a moment—” Tom supplied.

“They were?” Sabine answered and Adrien was curious at the eager tilt to her inquiry.

“—and I tripped trying not to ruin it.”

“Oh, _mamour,”_ she lamented with a feigned woeful hand to her cheek, “I think you failed.”

“No, he didn't!” Marinette rebuffed. “There was nothing to fail because there was no _moment_ —”

“Oh, there most definitely was a moment.”

 _“Papa,”_ she rebuked exasperatedly. “There was no moment!”

“I mean,” Adrien started, goading her evident mortification even if it meant extending his own, “there was a _little_ moment—”

“Chat Noir!” she shrilled.

Sabine actually shoved the sweatpants she was holding under her bicep to clap her hands and do a little hop. “Well, don't let us interrupt! What do you need? Do you want us to leave or…?”

“Oh my god,” Marinette breathed, grabbing the fabric from her mother as it was now Sabine’s turn to poke fun at her daughter. Tom joined her guffaws. “We're going. _Now._ ”

Then, with that forceful grip of hers, she dug her fingers into his arm and dragged him up the stairs to her room.

(He had to hide a wince. She was so lissom! Where was all this strength _coming_ from? He glanced at her body from the corner of his eye. _Where was she hiding it?_ )

“That's right hun,” her mom called up to them, “just keep living in the moment!” Adrien laughed and Sabine winked before giving him a sly wave.

Marinette tugged harder.

To avoid tripping, he followed—having just enough time to wave back at her mom and hear her laughingly berate Tom to, “get off the floor, for goodness’ sake!”

“I’m telling you, Sabine,” he grunted, then the cacophony of objects tumbling to the floor as he muttered, “ _moment._ ”

When they reached the top, Marinette shoved him inside her room and slammed the trap door behind them, further silencing the din that was her parents’ entertainment.

“What just happened?” It didn't seem like she was looking for a direct answer, her gaze darting about her room skittishly as she repeated, “No, seriously, what just happened?”

But he couldn't help himself.

“I think your parents ship us,” he quipped, poking at her side to rouse her from her apparent shock. She batted his hand away but he dodged her, nudging the pad of his finger onto the space just above the bend of her waist where he knew she was most weak. She squealed.

“They're terrible,” she panted. “And so are _you._ ”

He stuck his tongue out and she shoved him, but without much force. He stayed her hands on his chest.

“I think they're wonderful,” he murmured, rubbing lightly at her knuckles. “They’re raising _you,_ after all. And you're…”

Her fingers rippled over his suit, caressing his collarbones as she seemed to hold her breath.

“What?” she whispered.

“You're exquisite,” he said, his voice imbued with all the reverence he felt for her.

He expected her to hit him again, or at the very least roll her eyes. But Marinette always was one to surprise him, as she briefly broke their hold to boop him on the nose with one hand.

“Such a tomcat,” she said, voice not so much ribbing but calm, sleepy.

He'd even go so far as to say _appreciative._

“Only for you, Princess.”

She narrowed her eyes at the nickname. “And Ladybug?”

The fondness had abated ever so slightly, replaced by a carefully crafted blank tone that was only betrayed by the indiscernible tautness to her mouth. She might have pouted, if it didn't reveal the vulnerability she seemed to want to keep from him. And he might have missed it, if he hadn't known her so well.

So with a solemnity he rarely displayed when he was Chat Noir, he said, “Ladybug doesn't like me like that, and I respect that.”

“But _you_ like her like that,” she lamented, a knowing yet sorrowful gleam he couldn't decipher clouding her gaze.

 _Maybe that's changed,_ he wanted to tell her, especially if it meant he could erase whatever it was that had dimmed her propensity for effervescence. But then his ring beeped before he could further dive into the ocean of her eyes, and he sighed.

She flattened her palm along the side of his face till the tips of her fingers brushed the underside of his mask. When she withdrew, he felt positively bereft. He had never wanted so desperately to be rid of his suit. He yearned to hold her, feel the dips and crests of her hands or the warmth of her skin. He longed to mold himself to her figure till she filled his empty spaces and all he knew was Marinette, and whatever sadness that had plagued her banished because his shadows would only serve to brighten her light.

“Marinette…”

 _Say it,_ he implored himself.

His ring blasted another strident warning just then, and like a waft of smoke, the moment had drifted from his grasp.

“I'll get that mask for you,” she said, moving towards her closet where she retrieved the fabric along with another black garment apart from the pants her mother had provided.

“You never did answer my question.”

“What question?” she grunted while pulling forcefully on something. He smiled, despite himself.

“Why do you have a mask at the ready? If you wanted me out of my suit, all you had to do was ask,” he drawled. “You didn't have to use the rain as an excuse.”

She laughed. “You are so full of yourself, _minou._ ”

He tried not to frown petulantly that she hadn't tacked _mon_ before the endearment. He failed. She released a triumphant crow as he assumed she found what she sought. He tried not to be charmed.

Again, he failed.

He prowled towards her and wrapped his tail around her calf, even as he crossed his arms and attempted to maintain a miffed mien.

“So why the mask, then?” Inexplicable jealousy clawed at his stomach like bile. “ _Is_ there another superhero?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she replied coyly.

His hair stood on end and it took all his wits to smother a growl. _“Who?”_

She laughed again, flicking a slick strand away from his forehead with her free hand when a vexed rumble still managed to sound from his throat.

“Relax,” her giggles continued as she twisted her fingers in his hair. “My cousin asked me to make him a Zorro costume last Halloween. This was just one of my trial masks that I kept for reference.”

His unwarranted haze of envy cleared at her blithe demeanor, and he found himself joining her chortles.

“Sorry,” he murmured, leaning into her touch when her hand stayed in his locks. “It's the Miraculous. Sometimes I can't help it when the feline instincts take over me and, well,” he shrugged feebly. “You're my friend, Marinette. I feel very…” ~~possessive~~ “... _protective_ of you.”

 _Twice over,_ he yearned to tell her, when he was either Adrien and Chat Noir and she was nearby when an Akuma attacked. His eyes veered towards her and his body leaped to cover her and carry her to safety _—every_ time.

“You don't have to worry,” she said. And the jesting manner with which she strived to convey her next words was lost when her laughter faded into a gratified hum as she rubbed at the sublime spot behind his cat ear while the tip of his nose ambled along the dewy arch between her nape and shoulder.

“You know you're the only one,” she sighed.

 _“Ton minou?”_ he asked into the skin of her neck, unable to look her in they eye as he spoke the question, his voice small.

 _“Oui,”_ she declared with not a hint of hesitance. “Mon _minou._ ”

His ring trilled. What was it now—the third time? The fourth? Either way, he was cutting it pretty close, and Marinette knew it too as she gently pushed him away and placed the clump of ebony garbs in his arms.

“You should change.”

He nodded. “I should.”

But he didn’t move from his spot, apart from his tail, which slunk from her calf to curl around her thighs.

“Tomcat,” she said again after clicking her tongue. “Are you going to slap my butt again?”

“Oh my god!” He rolled his eyes even as his face burned. “I wasn’t trying to slap it! It was a graze okay, I _lightly_ grazed it—”

She laughed hard at his flustered state and he twisted his lips in a sulk though in truth, he was glad for the levity. Adrien didn't think he had ever in his life experienced such a wide range of emotions in so limited a time span as he had in the past hour. He had been wet and cold and hungry and mortified and exhausted to his bones. But he had also smiled, so wide that his cheeks throbbed from the gratuitous stretch of it. And he had laughed, the kind of laugh that left his stomach feeling as if he had gone through a hundred push-ups yet he was certain he would have done a hundred more, if it meant he could induce such laughter again. And sure, he was tired but it was inconsequential, _welcomed_ even, because above all else—

He felt _love._

It was unmistakably bizarre for such a sensation to arise, in this house of effulgence of which he was a penumbral interloper. Or perhaps it was for that very reason that he felt comfortable at all. For he knew love. And he knew his father loved him.

_(Right?)_

What little he knew of love, he learned from the man and that surely counted for something.

And he loved Ladybug—that had never been an issue... but was _in_ love with her? Or had he been taken by the grandeur of two superheroes destined by forces that could only be speculatively attributed to the Universe and its magic determining they were meant to be together? If that was so, shouldn't he have been with Ladybug by now, instead of this unending game of cat and bug? A game in which only he was the player, chasing his tail more often than he was pursuing her, in love as she was with someone else. Besides, what was _that_ about? Destiny or Fate or whatever it wanted to be called, who said _They_ got to decide? Adrien all ready had so little control over most aspects of his life, would whom he gave his heart to be willed by someone other than himself, too?

So… did that mean he _wasn't_ in love with Ladybug? And then there were his feelings for Marinette to consider. For what other explanation was there for the way he felt drawn to her? For this intense, almost frantic, need to see her smile and make her laugh? And what of the safety she incited in him, that he might be the one with powers but when it came down to it, she was the _true_ hero simply because of the way she made him feel, like he was more than he truly was, like he was brave and whole and _happy._ Ladybug made his heart race but _Marinette—_ Marinette made his heart _soar._ He didn't think that immediately meant he was in love with her. But with the fog that had been his admiration for Ladybug gradually lifting, it suddenly seemed so easy to fall for Marinette and he felt his heart flood open with possibilities for her—for _them._

He groaned. _Mon dieu,_ he didn't know what to feel!

In any case, he was more familiar with the aftermath of love, when the novelty faded and the scars were left behind. They were unseen to everyone and yet it had him feeling ugly all the same.

But not here... not when he was surrounded by the tenderheartedness of the Dupain-Chengs and most definitely not when he was consumed by Marinette’s incandescent aura.

As perplexed as he was, one thing was becoming quite clear to him—knowing _of_ love was an entirely separate experience from _feeling_ it.

“Chat?”

Unbeknownst to him, pensive as he was, Marinette had led him to her bathroom door. If laser vision was a part of his superpowers, he would have drilled a hole into the wood with how hard he had stared at it. Thankfully (or not, seeing as he had been walking in the rain), the only thing heated about him was his cheeks. He looked at her with an apology in his eyes. She returned her fingers to his leather mask and traced the lower edges as she tilted her head and asked, in a voice overflowing with concern, “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere,” he shook his head. “I think, for once—” He pinned her with a decisive stare. He infused pointed meaning into every word, syllable and letter he dared to say next, so there was no mistaking his sincerity.

“I’m exactly where I want to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I JUST HAVE A LOT OF SADRIEN AND MARICHAT FEELS OKAY SO MUCH THAT THERE IS A PART 2 XD


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a.k.a. in which mama sabine knows all lmao

Absconded as he was in the privacy of Marinette’s bathroom, he indulged himself and laughed.

“Clever girl, indeed,” he muttered to himself as he held out the elusive top she had given him, a hoodie in actuality. You wouldn't think much of it at a glance—black and plain and evidently in a man's size (a fact he had focused on with razor sharp intensity as the question of who she made this for, became more clear). But then he reached the hood, and the whole jacket was transformed.

For on either side of it, was a pair _cat_ ears.

And not just a tiny pair, but one that uncannily matched the size of his own suit ears.

But that wasn't even the best part! Sewed onto the inner back where the tag was normally stitched and in vibrant green thread, it read _chaton,_ and instantly it was confirmed—Marinette _had_ made this.

And she made it specifically for _him._

He briefly wondered _why_ she would ever make him anything, then decided he didn't care. _She_ made him an _original_ Marinette Dupain-Cheng, and unlike her hat, he got to keep it this time. He bounced on the balls of his feet. He honestly couldn't wait to try it on and subsequently, his transformation couldn't have come at a sooner time. His ring bleeped a final warning and he was engulfed by green light.

When he looked at the mirror, Adrien met him and the entirety of him was soaked. He hadn't realized just how warm the suit kept him till he was stood shivering uncontrollably in his wet clothes. Yet he surmised he had never looked brighter, eyes sparkling and smile waggish.

That was, until, “Kid! What the fu—”

 _“Plagg,”_ he hissed, cupping the Kwami in his hands and holding him close to his chest. “You're freezing!”

“No thanks to you,” Plagg scowled before nipping harshly at his thumb. Adrien shrieked.

“Ow!”

There was a rustle just beyond the bathroom door as Marinette approached. “Is everything all right in there?” she called.

“Fine! Everything's just fine!”

He could see her shadow shifting from the gap under the wood. “You sure?” she asked, worry tingeing every word. “It sounded like you got hurt.”

“I got hurt all right,” he said beneath his breath. Then, louder, “I'm fine.” He rubbed his forehead with his uninjured hand before shooting Plagg a baleful glare. “I’ll explain when I come out.”

“Okay…”

He chuckled. “Seriously, Marinette. I’m _fine._ ”

“If you say so,” she huffed. “Just, let me know if you need anything?”

“Trust me,” he answered, admiring his hoodie once more before divesting himself of his undershirt and polo. “I’m right as rain.”

“Ha, _ha._ ”

“I'll be out in a minute, Princess,” he said, smiling reassuringly even when he knew perfectly well she couldn't see. “In the meantime, you have my eternal gratitude for deigning to share your personal ensuite with a lowly knight such as myself.”

Outside, he heard Marinette huff. In front of him, Plagg gagged.

No one appreciated his humor.

“You're ridiculous.”

“You love it!”

He counted it as a win when instead of denying it, she merely walked away.

He turned to the floating Kwami only to be met with a deadpan stare.

“Really? We're at Marinette's, _again?_ What is it, the fourth time this week?”

“No,” he replied sullenly. Then, from the corner of his mouth he mumbled, “it's the _third._ ”

“Well, color me impressed at your magnanimous self-control.”

Affronted, Adrien added, “It's not like I intended to stay this time! She invited me _in._ ”

“Truly, your restraint knows no bounds,” Plagg drawled in sarcastic-laden intonations. He sniffed snottily. “Next thing you know, you'll be sleeping in here.” Adrien rolled his eyes.

(...even if the idea _did_ appeal to him—not that he'd do Marinette the dishonor of coming into her bed and sleeping beside her, however nice that sounded.

At least, not unless _she_ gave him the green light)

“I hope you're happy because thanks to your little date in the rain—”

Adrien groaned though he did nothing more to dispute the notion.

“—I'm not transforming any time soon, not in _this_ atrocious weather and certainly not without my camembert!”

“Plagg,” he said softly, drawing out the _a_ in a whine. “Marinette's parents know I’m here and invited me to dinner.”

Plagg raised a skeptical eyebrow. He didn't blame him, he could scarcely believe it himself.

“And how exactly do you plan to keep your identity a secret if you've got a seat on their table? Or are we throwing the whole anonymity thing out the window? You know, the one where a secret identity allows you to keep yourself and the people you care about, protected?”

“I'm not stupid—”

“You could have fooled me.”

His eyes narrowed in frustration. “— _Marinette_ has a mask for me. She has us covered.” _Literally._

“How convenient,” Plagg muttered. “An evening interacting with people while it rains outside,” he sighed and with a straight face, continued. _“Fun.”_

“Look,” Adrien sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before pointing at Plagg. “I don't know if they have any camembert but _please_ be on your best behavior anyway.”

Plagg's jaw dropped, possibly in outrage and shock. “What kind of self-respecting household _doesn't_ have camembert?”

“None, Plagg, because the average household _wouldn't_ have camembert in their pantry. _You_ have expensive taste!”

“So I have high standards. Don't cheese shame me, I'm just trying to live my best life here!”

“Says the one who doesn't have a dwindling bank account,” Adrien scowled. “I’m pretty sure Nathalie thinks I have a camembert addiction.”

Plagg shrugged, unconcerned. “Why not? I, for one, think it's a tragedy not enough people are eating my beloved camembert. But hey,” he shot him a devious smile. “More for me!”

“I think the real travesty is that my clothes will forever smell like camembert.” He sniffed his pants, exaggeratedly gagging at the hint of the cheese the rain hadn't managed to erase to irritate Plagg (a success, he might add, the Kwami sticking his tongue out at him) before folding it in a neat pile to join his shirts, which had all ready found their place in the paper bag Marinette had provided him earlier. Another paper bag was given to him for his sneakers. He deposited both heaps by the door so that it would be a quick gather when he inevitably had to leave. All that done, he put on Tom's black sweatpants and frowned when they sagged to his pelvis and drowned his bare feet.

He pulled on the fabric till his feet came out of the holes then he rolled the waistband till it was snug against him. He bounced, then sighed. It was still a tad loose but it was to be expected, he supposed. Tom was a significantly larger man than him. He would have been better off in Marinette's clothes. He cleared his throat.

The idea made him hot.

In lieu of exploring _that_ line of thought, he tied the mask around his head and put on his hoodie. The fabric was incredibly soft, a hundred percent cotton if he had to gander, instead of the polyester blend he expected it to be. Marinette had sowed it in French seams, unusual for a hoodie but _damn_ if it wasn't comfortable. As a result, the lining felt velvety instead of itchy, rippling smoothly along his skin as he moved. But the most noticeable modification had to be the pockets—for in the place of the standard two-sided provision in the middle, Marinette had tailored two, separate pockets on either side of the front, much like those found on regular jeans. And they weren't shallow like most hoodies’ pockets, but deep enough that they not only covered his hands but would keep Plagg nestled and hidden comfortably. She couldn't have known about him, of course, but the alteration was astoundingly intuitive. Not that he was complaining.

It was apparent that a lot of time (and money!) had gone into its creation. When he lifted the hoodie, the cat ears didn't sag. They stood to attention yet were surprisingly light on his head.

He looked at the mirror and examined himself anew. He didn't see Chat Noir, not when Plagg was hovering by his head with a critical eye. But it wasn’t Adrien he glimpsed either, since he had a mask on. So who was this that greeted his reflection, this amalgamation of the two most prominent parts of himself, who was sharper-eyed yet had softened around the edges, unhindered and unburdened and genuinely free.

He didn't know. And maybe that was okay. All he was certain of was Marinette... and how he _may_ have just developed a tiny crush on her. For how could he not? That she had spent any amount of time, however short or long, working on this hoodie with painstaking care and pertinacity suggested just how much she cared for him. And how beautiful it was, to know that you were thought of.

How beautiful _she_ was.

The edges of his mouth expanded to ridiculous heights.

“So?” He spread his hands out. “What do you think?”

Plagg gave him a once over. “ _I_ think the real tragedy is you.”

He rolled his eyes but his smile remained. If anything, it broadened—because on the other side stood Marinette, and the chance to be near her overwhelmed him with excitement. He held out a pocket to Plagg. “Shut up and get in here.”

“Ugh, with pleasure you lovestruck fool.”

Plagg was still muttering about “hormonal teenagers” and “I can't believe I have to deal with this shit, _every_ time” when Adrien opened the door.

Only to turn around right away.

“S-sorry,” he stammered. “I forgot to ask if you were done changing…”

In truth, he hadn't seen anything. Marinette had been pulling on the hem of her tank but that flash of a sliver of skin had been enough to drive him a little wild.

She laughed, low and enticing, and god was he thankful for the rain just this once when he felt his temperature rise at the sound.

(So maybe it wasn't just a _tiny_ crush)

“I am,” she assured and bid him to turn around. “Oh!”

She scuttled to her desk and ruffled through a couple drawers before kneeling in front of him.

He gulped. This was not helping his flustered state.

“Um.”

(He could feel the rumble of Plagg's, thankfully silent, snickers. He pressed his hand against his pocket)

“I should have known Papa's sweatpants would be big on you, no matter how old.”

She opened her hand to reveal a bundle of pins.

_Oh._

“I was just thinking that I was better off wearing something from your closet,” he said, hoping his voice didn't betray him by being too high or shaky. He subtly cleared his throat. “But your mom went through all that trouble.”

Marinette gave him a small smile. “That's kind of you, but I don't want you stressing over it. I know I would.”

“I really don't mind.”

She shrugged. “It's not like I can't do it. You don't need to be a fashion designer to use a safety pin.”

“But it sure helps,” he said with a wink, before unrolling the waistband.

Marinette made quick work of cinching the waist and pinning it to place. Before he knew it, she was dusting herself off the ground. She stood back to survey her work—he tried not to preen at her appreciative gleam but a bit of the model in him came out anyway as he pushed his shoulders back and smirked—then abruptly clapped her hands.

“The hoodie, it fit!”

He ran his hands over the cotton fabric. “Like a glove!” he enthused. “Did you doubt it would?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “It's not like I could Google your measurements, Chat Noir.”

“You can't?” he cocked his head. _Huh,_ that was a surprise to him. Google knew everything.

She laughed, a hearty guffaw that had her throwing her head back from the force of it, and it was a song he wanted on indefinite repeat inside his brain. His heart grew two sizes just hearing it.

“Come on,” she looped her arm around his, leading him towards her trapdoor. “Dinner's ready by now, I'm sure.”

“Wait,” he said, ambling behind her before gradually pulling to a stop so that he trailed a path from her elbow to her palm, reveling in all the exposed skin being out of his suit and her in her tank afforded him. He weaved his fingers through her own and was surprised at how rough it was, calluses found in the pads of her thumb and forefinger. She had such small hands. Yet the scars peppering her palm betrayed their delicateness, for these were the hands of a gifted craftswoman—all strength, beauty and creativity hidden within. If he thought the opportunity to hold her at all was wonderful, then the feel of her without the barrier of his suit or her blazer impeding movements or dulling sensations was _glorious._ He found he was fast becoming addicted to the way their hands intertwined, for it seemed as if his fingers were specifically tailored to fill the spaces between her own.

She giggled and it prompted him to break his stare from the bridge between them that was their interlocked hands.

“What is it, _minou?_ ”

“I really do love it,” he said earnestly. “Not a lot of people can say they have a Marinette Dupain-Cheng original, you know. And one day your name will fill fashion magazines and be whispered with envy by your peers and awe by aspiring designers from all over the world. I hope I'll be around when that happens—”

“Chat,” she interrupted, face rosy so it bloomed like a flower, albeit a shy one. He smiled, tucking a midnight lock behind her ear before trailing the length of it down her collarbone. He'd never seen her with her hair down, funnily enough, but she was just as beguiling, ebony tresses spilling like the night sky around her face.

“But even if I'm not, I’ll forever get to say that one time _the_ Marinette Dupain-Cheng made me, Chat Noir, an original, customized hoodie in the style of me, Chat Noir.”

She snorted. “Smoothly done.”

She bent to her hatch once again but he tugged her back.

“Hey.”

“What is it now?” she pretended to fume, though he noted with interest that she didn't seem keen to break from his grasp when she had all ready proven how easy it would be for her. He smothered an urge to do a victory dance. He settled for inclining their clasped hands and turning them over so that he cupped her open palm.

He lowered his lips to the succulent curve between her thumb and wrist. Then, he placed a lingering kiss there, never once taking his eyes off hers as he murmured against her warm flesh, “Thank you.”

Marinette audibly gulped.

“S-sure,” she stammered. “It was nothing.”

He shook his head. “Not to me. So, seriously—”

Adrien took the hand that had been playing with the ends of her hair to run it along the nape of her neck where he rubbed calming circles. He liked the way her eyes fluttered when he stepped closer, till they were but a hairsbreadth apart, their hands resting against his chest. She leaned into his touch as she craned her head to peer up at him. He tilted his head, eyes hooded as he repeated with breathy solemnity.

_“Thank you.”_

His heart was running a marathon in his chest, sprinting from beneath his ribcage and straight into her hands. He wondered if she could feel it and whether he should be embarrassed if she did, but found that he no longer cared. He had always been a little too willing, too _open_ with his emotions. Ladybug would have attested to that. But the difference, he realized, was that this time… _this_ time—

It wasn't one-sided. He wasn't alone.

Because there was Marinette, standing on the tips of her toes, her free hand finding purchase in his hair while he abandoned hers in favor of anchoring his arm around her waist. She hummed. She liked to do that, he was starting to discover, similar to how he purred when he was particularly pleased.

And oh, how he liked to please her.

So he'd wait for her to kiss him. He inched closer till their noses brushed, but he would follow her lead and let her decide when to seal the space between them. He nudged the crease of her cheek with the tip of his nose.

(But surely a little push wouldn’t hurt?)

“Marinette?” Sabine called. “Dinner's getting cold!”

Her summon pierced the bubble they had encased themselves in, voice wafting through the wood loudly as if she had been right next to them. Marinette groaned, burying her face deeply into his neck so his hood fell. He could admit he was somewhat disappointed, yet couldn't bring himself to be too upset—not when Marinette was so blatantly miffed as well. She hadn't even shied away from him so he chanced tightening his arm around her waist and was gratified when she further nuzzled the crook of his neck before resting her chin on his shoulder. She sighed and he relished the audible proof of her annoyance. She was so damn _cute,_ sometimes she didn't seem real.

He chuckled.

“We should go,” he said. “Your parents are waiting.”

“My _parents,_ ” she grumbled, “have the _worst_ timing.”

He nudged his shoulder so that he could see her, and had to bite back a laugh. Her face was twisted in a grimace, luscious lips pushed out in an adorable pout that he wanted to suckle between his own. To temper his frustration, he kissed the back of her hand and gave it a small squeeze.

“Do it for the food, _chérie._ ”

He froze. _Oops._ His eyes widened at her, apologetically. The endearment had sort of just, _slipped_ out of him. He’d always been inclined to using them, it was often Ladybug's plight with him that he wouldn't cease to call her ‘bugaboo’. He remembered their earlier conversation and how she pointed out that he always called her ‘princess’. It hadn't bothered her, but had he gone too far now? She tilted her head at him in an almost curious manner, and he thought he was done for when she pulled her body away.

But then she stayed her hand and returned his squeeze with a smile. He breathed a sigh of relief at the radiant sight.

“I’m no princess,” she said archly as she opened her door. “But I do know a thing or two about being sweet.”

“Believe me,” he ran his knuckles along her cheek, forever bewitched by the miles of skin now available to him. “I'm aware.”

She bit her lip as if to contain her smile, then stepped down, returning to their earlier discussion. “Mama does make a mean _wanton,_ ” she sighed with feigned tsuris.“For the food.”

He nodded. “ _Oui,_ for the food.”

She paused, as if warring with herself on whether she should say her next words or not.

“And then, later…?”

He was glad she did. He felt his mouth stretch to a Cheshire's grin.

“Later,” he promised, and it couldn't come fast enough.

It hadn't gone unnoticed to Tom and Sabine that he and Marinette had gone down the stairs holding hands and didn't let go of each other till they sat down the dining table, not if the looks they exchanged were anything to to by. He had always assumed that was fiction, two people communicating with a mere glance. But a conversation happened before his very eyes, one that occurred without a single word, all because Tom and Sabine met eyes. He couldn't precisely decode the meaning of their stare, but with the way they regarded him, Marinette, him _and_ Marinette, and then back at each other, he could very well guess. He gazed at Marinette from the corner of his eye just in time to see her roll her pretty, blue orbs. She must have been used to it. But he wasn't.

That cursed blush woke anew.

“You kids took a while,” Tom began airily as he took his place at the head of the table. Well, Adrien had an explanation for the delay. Speaking of—

“I know, right?”

Plagg, the little rascal, darted to the middle of the table before he could stop him. Sabine, who had been about to sit at Tom's right, jumped to a stand.

“Honestly,” he griped. “You should put a leash on these kids.”

Beside him, Marinette gasped.

 _“Plagg!”_ he cried.

The Kwami paid him no heed. He sniffed.

“Where’s my cheese?”

Adrien grabbed him midair and held him to his chest. “ _Nowhere,_ unless you _behave,_ ” he said through gritted teeth.

“I'm so sorry about him,” he addressed the Dupain-Chengs, all the while wrestling with Plagg, who seemed intent on escaping his grasp.

“What… what _is..._ he?” Sabine asked, stuttering between calling Plagg ‘it’ or ‘he’. He was grateful she corrected herself, else this would have gone on for eternity.

“ _Hungry_ —”

He pressed against Plagg harder to muffle him.

“He's what gives me my powers, believe it or not,” Adrien said dryly. “He's a Kwami, and by saying a specific set of words, he’s what allows me to transform into Chat Noir. But it tires him out and eating is his way of recharging, apart from sleeping. But,” he yelped as Plagg dug his claws in. When he raised his arm, he dangled from his hand. Adrien sighed. “Mostly eating though.”

“What does he like to eat?” Marinette asked, and he wondered about the twinkle in her eyes.

“Cheese.”

“Not just any cheese, I'm not a barbarian.” Plagg interrupted. “I only eat camembert, the smelliest, most delectable, best of the best, cheese that was ever created. Oh, my beloved _camembert,_ ” he wailed. Adrien rolled his eyes. “My stomach feels empty without you. When will we ever reunite again?”

“Well, I don't know about camembert,” Tom started with an amused lilt, “but we do have fondue.” With a sweep of his arm, he gestured towards the kitchen counter where indeed—a small, ceramic, steaming pot of cheese fondue sat.

Plagg opened his mouth and Adrien was about to warn him to play nice when the Kwami literally launched himself into the pot as if it were his own personal swimming pool. Adrien's jaw dropped.

“Plagg!” he cried, mortified. Tom, however, chortled and Sabine’s tinkling laughter followed.

“What?” the little fiend had the audacity to float on his _back._ Adrien wanted to facepalm if Plagg wasn't all ready being rude enough for the both of them. “He said to help himself!”

He sneered. “He didn't, actually!”

“I suppose that’s one way to start a meal,” Sabine remarked as she began to pass out bowls. “Everyone dig in!”

“I thought only barbarians ate other kinds of cheese?” Marinette teased as she dove for the wanton broth.

“And as previously stated, I’m _not_ one.” Plagg plunged into the pot and emerged with a face full of fondue. “It’s rude to refuse the host.”

“Oh, is it now?” Adrien commented acerbically. Then he turned to the occupants of the table with the most sorry expression his model-good looks could ever muster. “I can't apologize enough for his behavior. I am so, so, _so_ sorry.”

“It's quite all right, dear.” Sabine patted his hand before taking it upon herself to give him a large serving of soup. “Marinette doesn't much stand on ceremony when it comes to food either.”

“Mama!” Marinette blushed and he only felt a _little_ guilty that he wasn't alone in his discomfort.

“It’s true! I don’t know where a skinny thing like you keeps it all at the rate you eat.”

_“Oh my god.”_

“She obviously takes after her father,” Tom interjected, puffing his chest out with pride before ruffling Marinette's hair. She ducked but wasn't quick enough and suffered through Tom's petting as he stretched across the table to reach her. “Papa!” she grumbled. Adrien laughed at their antics as Marinette swatted her father's arm away before fixing her hair. Abruptly, she said, “Is Plagg always like this?”

He snickered. “Smooth,” he whispered under his breath. She glared, but he obliged the change in subject. He blew an exasperated breath.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Plagg threw a cheesy raspberry back at him. “Would you have me any other way?”

Adrien smiled at his direction, a small upturn of the lips that brimmed with content. “Funnily enough, no.” He returned his gaze to them. “I can hardly remember what life was like before I had him.”

Well, that wasn't strictly correct—it wasn't so much that he couldn't remember than it was a period he rather wished he could forget. He knew his lips had crudely slanted into a frown when he saw Marinette's own face fall. He pushed his shoulders back. The dinner table was _not_ the place to unravel, especially in someone _else's_ dinner table and—

Marinette had put her hand on his knee and all his thoughts grounded to a halt.

“How did you two meet?” she asked quietly.

He gave her a grateful smile as he met her fingers and intertwined their hands. Adrien took a deep breath, finding light in her touch so that it drove away the darkest of demons threatening to swarm his head.

“I came home one day and he was just… _there._ ” Adrien shook his head fondly in recollection. “From the get go, he was all ready a glutton—he tried to eat my remote control!”

Marinette's parents laughed but she was pensive when she asked, “How did you take it?” she leaned into his space, her eyes burning with curiosity. “You must have freaked out.”

“A little,” he admitted.

“Are you kidding?” Plagg interrupted his cheese bath to say. “Kid took to it like fish to water. Transformed before I could finish explaining—before I was even fed!”

Marinette huffed a stray lock from her face as she muttered, “Of course _you_ did.”

He would have commented further, but then he took a bite of the wanton noodles. He couldn't hold back his moan.

“This is delicious!”

Sabine chuckled even as she blushed. “I'm glad you think so.”

“The best noodles in Paris,” Tom beamed proudly.

“Can’t argue with that,” Marinette joined.

Adrien sighed. “I could marry this soup. Right now.”

So he slurped at the dish with a gusto one wouldn't expect from someone eating with just one hand. Then again, chopsticks didn't require the pair of them, though it would have been easier. Still, neither teen seemed willing to let go, happy to eat one-handed if it meant they could maintain the rare, skin-on-skin contact, even as innocent as hand-holding.

The rest of the meal passed in lapses of companionable silence and animated conversation. Adrien ate like he never had—had practically inhaled his food, be it Chinese, Italian or French cuisine, the Dupain-Chengs offered it all and so all he ate—had _laughed_ like he never had, for Tom and Sabine had no shortage of tales to spill of Marinette's escapades as a child.

(“One time at a big family reunion, she climbed out of her high chair, crawled across the table—”

“Nooooo,” Marinette whined. “Not this story!”

“—and grabbed a huge chunk out of a _whole_ roast chicken then sat right back without any of us noticing. We just turned around and there she was, trying to stuff her mouth with a chicken leg half her size!”

Adrien was giggling so hard he snorted. “Impressive, Marinette.”

She glowered, but when he poked her cheek she couldn't resist joining their amusement)

By the time the meal was drawing to a close, Adrien had eaten nearly half the contents of the table and felt borderline catatonic as a result. He felt _full,_ but it wasn't merely due to the food. The dinner had been exquisite, made all the more comely for the people he shared it with. The dining table in the mansion was a time of solitary reflection for Adrien; where his thoughts were the loudest din, save for the clink of ceramics and utensils. But here, it was a symphony of colorful sound. If this were to be his first and last meal here, it would be a tune he carried with him for all time.

Even the quiet was something he relished. It wasn't empty, like that in his house. It was the kind of quiet that echoed the good times that preceded it, a quiet that came after a round of shared enjoyment so consuming, it robbed one's breath. It left you silent, sleepy… but overall utterly _satisfied._

Sabine had bidden him to stay seated while Marinette and her father put food away, either in containers or in the trash. A nightly chore, he gathered, as they made quick work of it. It fascinated him to no end. Adrien may have been in his father's payroll but he'd never done housework in his life. To see everyone move in perfect fluidity, toiling to restore the kitchen to cleanliness while he remained motionless left him feeling uneasy, like he should have been helping them. He'd been in the kitchens and around the house long enough to observe the way his staff moved—in theory he should be able to provide his assistance. Wasn't that number one on his job description anyway? Granted, this mightn't have been what Master Fu had in mind, but he was Chat Noir. He was capable. It couldn't be that hard, right?

Right.

So when Sabine made to clear the last of the plates, he held his hands out and scooped them up before she could. He brought them to the sink then leaned against it as he addressed her.

“I can wash the dishes,” he offered.

“Such a sweet boy,” she smiled. “But that's usually Marinette's job.” She raised a flinty eyebrow at her daughter. “Marinette? Don't you have something to say?”

She held both her hands up.

“Mama, if he's up to the task, _I'm_ not gonna stop him.”

He shrugged nonchalantly and with a crooked grin, joked, “I volunteer as tribute.”

“See?” Marinette clapped her hands, giddy. With a wink, she skipped to the living room and stood beside her father, who was setting up their game console. It bemused him. Was washing dishes really that terrible?

Sabine shook her head at Marinette's retreating back before turning to him. “Nonsense—”

Plagg snorted. “You said it. He's never had to do chores, like, _ever._ ”

_“Plagg!”_

“What? I’m telling the truth!”

“Please. Ignore him.” Adrien glared at him before continuing. “I'll handle the dishes, it's the least I can do. You've been so kind to me all ready. Let me do this for you.”

Sabine appraised him and he bore it with baited breath.

“On one condition,” her smile returned, a soft upward tilt of her lips that made him feel small and young, younger than he had ever felt since his own mother left all those years ago. He'd have agreed to anything then, if it meant he could preserve those very sensations. He nodded with kitten-like eagerness.

“You wash, I dry,” she proposed. “Deal?”

He chuckled. “Deal.”

“ _Okay,_ if you're done here—”

Plagg dashed up the staircase. Adrien caught him by the tail, a look of incredulity plastered on his face.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“Marinette's room,” he stated with a frankness that informed him he should have known this, ergo, Plagg had every right to be there. He frowned.

“Come on, you know you can't just barge into other people's rooms—”

“Oh, cause you're _so_ good at that—”

Adrien refused to give Plagg the satisfaction of showing his frustration by pulling his hair, though he did snarl. “ _Why_ do you even wanna go up there?”

“What’s it to you?” Plagg pulled at his tail. “Let go of me!”

“Hey,” Marinette called.

“What?” he looked at her and noticed she had turned uncharacteristically pallid. His frown deepened and he released Plagg. He took a step towards her, arms outstretched in a hug that he would will with all his might to squash whatever it was the distressed her, her parents be damned.

But she wasn't talking to him.

“You can go to my room.”

“Yes,” Plagg sighed peevishly. “I know _that._ ”

He proceeded to float up to her chambers. Adrien bit back the inkling to shout in protest, which was just as well. Marinette beckoned once more.

“Plagg.”

To his surprise, the Kwami ceased his ascent. He faced her.

“Interesting,” Plagg's voice had appropriated a solemnity he rarely displayed. “That it's you.”

They exchanged a weighted look that he couldn't even begin to comprehend. There was a knowing glint in both their eyes, as if a message had been relayed and subsequently received. It made him… apprehensive? No, not exactly. It wasn't like they were talking about him (at least, he _assumed_ they were talking about Marinette). But he definitely felt like there was something he wasn't getting—something he should have been perfectly aware of.

Marinette smirked playfully. “Don't touch anything that isn't yours.”

Plagg rolled his eyes, yet his grin was sincere, and dare he say _—tender._ Adrien gawked.

“Your… _room_ is in good hands or,” he held out his arms. “As it were, in good _paws._ ”

It was Marinette's turn to conceal her amusement abaft an eye roll. Adrien whirled his gaze back and forth between them, eyebrow raised quizzically.

“I'm missing something here, aren't I?”

“Don't worry your pretty, blond head about it, sunshine.”

“Do you really think I'm pretty?” he retorted saccharinely.

Plagg didn't dignify that with a response. Without so much as a backwards glance, he phased through the trapdoor.

Eerie silence remained in his wake.

“So, _that_ happened,” Tom mused.

“Do I even want to know?” Adrien directed his question to Marinette. She shrugged.

“Not if you want to live longer.”

“I do have nine lives.”

“Trust me,” she resumed her attention to the console and the controller in her hands. “You're not ready to hear this. Not if you want to keep _all_ nine lives.”

“That's so cryptic, Marinette!” He protested, roughly shoving his hands in his pockets. “You can't just say something like that and not explain!”

She ignored him and he tried not to sulk. When did Plagg and Marinette even have the chance to talk before now? Their incredibly brief interaction shouldn't have warranted such familiarity, yet he was convinced some sort of acknowledgement occurred between them. But what? How? _Why?_ He couldn't help the absence that welled within—like the answers were staring right at him, yet he was too blinded by the glare of it to see properly.

“You are a strange child,” Tom declared.

“I'm _your_ child,” she returned, looking at him askance. “If you've got a problem with the product, take it up with the manufacturer.”

“But that's me,” he whined.

_“Exactly.”_

The tension of earlier seemed to dissipate in the wake of their persiflage, as it seemed was the standard in the Dupain-Cheng household. Had he spoken to his father with such imprudence, he'd have been institutionalized. Had he and Chat Noir been separate people and Chat strutted into the mansion then indulged the same intimacy with him that he had with Marinette, he would have been thrown out. Forget being thrown out all together—he wouldn't have made it past the _front door._ So really, Adrien could only goggle at this family.

They were marvelous—easily, openly, irresistibly, wholeheartedly, undeniably, _marvelous._

Beside him, Sabine shook her head. “Those two have their own world,” she sighed, with a forlornless—a _longing_ that appeared out of place within these four walls, the weight of her emotions so heavy he felt it echo through his soul in tidal waves of wistfulness. His ebullience faded in the wake of this realization.

He knew this sadness, as well as his own heartbeat, and while he was certain this family was the epitome of healthy kinships—he found he couldn't begrudge Sabine her envy. He had only been in Marinette and Tom’s presence for less than a night, but he sensed their closeness straight away. He stared at them, and saw what she saw—how animated and engaged they spoke with each other, how when Tom would pull Marinette would push, how they may have been speaking in French but it might as well have been esoteric to them. Marinette stared up at her father with stars in her eyes while Tom praised Marinette as if everything good in the world had been made by her hands. Those two shared a bond he could only ever dream of having with his own father.

Suddenly, looking at Sabine was like looking at a mirror.

“I just don't understand them sometimes,” she continued.

He tilted his head at her, silken strands falling into his face as he spoke, lowly, compassionately, “But you love them anyway.”

And then she smiled—not just with her mouth, but with her whole body. Her eyes had slanted upwards into tiny smiles of their own while the tension she harbored all over melted till her body hummed in repose. With those words, it was like a lock had been broken and wasn't it just incredible? Wasn’t it absolutely grand? The way love conquered even the darkest of imaginings—the way love _healed._

“But you love them anyway,” she repeated.

She lightly bumped her shoulder with his. “You still up for tackling those dishes with me?”

“I'm _paw_ -sitive I can.”

That elicited an exuberant laugh from her. At least _one_ person in this building appreciated his puns.

When they reached the sink, he rolled up his sleeves. Sabine touched his shoulder.

“This is nice,” she noted of his hoodie.

“Marinette made it for me!” He enthused, lifting the hood over his head and twirling without prompt. He struck a pose. “What do you think?”

She chuckled, regarding him with a gleam in her eyes that he couldn't place.

(It definitely wasn't a night of knowledge for Adrien Agreste)

“It suits you.”

He nodded his agreement.

“She's gonna do great things one day,” he sighed happily as Sabine handed him the sponge then drained the sink.

“You two are close, huh?”

That brought him to a screeching halt. _Shit,_ he thought. So she _had_ noticed their easiness with each other. Ugh, who was he kidding? Of _course_ she noticed, they weren't exactly the definition of subtle.

“Yes,” he croaked because at this point, what was the use of lying? Though it still came out more question than statement, as if he himself didn't know the real answer.

She didn't say anything after that, merely began to hum a Chinese lullaby beneath her breath, and so he didn't expound. Maybe she knew they were close but not the hows or the whys. He couldn't fathom being so close to a parent as to share such details with them. Well, not that there was anything scandalous to their friendship (at least, depending on who was asking). But he didn't think _any_ parent would find near-nightly visits from the opposite sex—superhero or not—to their daughter's bedroom in the after hours of Paris appropriate, no matter how innocent the intentions. Perhaps luck, little as it was, was on his side tonight.

After careful instruction from Marinette's mom and some close calls with slippery dishes, he got the hang of it, he and Sabine functioning like a well-oiled machine—he washed a pile, she rinsed and dried.

There was something soothing about the routine. It might have been the asininity of it—the motions repetitive and expected that he didn't have to think at all, and so it was effortless to lose himself. It might have been the clamor of Marinette’s gaming zeal and Tom's overly dramatic wails of defeat as Marinette expertly annihilated him in round after round of Ultra Megastrike IV that brought him serenity when the noise would have rattled anyone else. Even the dissonance of running water and clanging dishware brought him domestic bliss, the likes of which he had never known.

Because the mansion may have been his formal residence, but with the reticent staff and his hermit of a father, it was just another building—foreign and stolid and one he happened to be required to sleep in.

Compared to here though, there had never been more polar opposites. The truth of the matter was, he could have fit the Dupain-Chengs’ apartment inside the Agreste mansion and yet, he found there was no other place he'd rather be in. The organized clutter told of a life well lived and a house well loved. The raucous of continuous chatter and Sabine's soft singing and television static was a symphony to his lonely ears. This was a refuge with people who were free to be who they were and just… _love._

This _is a real home,_ he mused, and if he could, he hoped to never leave. And perhaps he never would, if Tom and Sabine liked him enough to invite him another night, if he and Marinette became just as good friends when he was Adrien, better yet if he and Marinette fell in lo—

_Stop._

A crack sounded and when Adrien looked down, where there was once an unblemished surface, a tear had wrought through halfway down the middle of the plate he was washing. He gasped.

“I'm sorry! I’m s-so—I’m _sorry!_ ”

With haste he let go, only to wish he hadn't. The impact caused the crevice to widen though the plate hadn't completely split into two.

“You're shaking,” Sabine whispered.

“Oh,” he hadn't noticed. “I broke a plate,” he said dumbly. “That must have been a set, right? And you can't have a set with _just_ three—” (never mind that the occupants of this household were that very number) “—I'll replace it. I’ll buy another one.”

_I'll buy you a whole kitchen's worth of new sets._

“It's just a plate,” Sabine murmured, squeezing his shoulder. “It's all right, Adrien.”

…

…

…

…

Adrien.

Adrien?

 _Holy fuck,_ _she said_ Adrien!

One minute he couldn't breathe and the next, he choked on air.

“Chat?” Marinette hollered at him though she hadn't averted her eyes from the screen. She crowed at a successful 12-hit combo before calling to him once more, “You ok? Choke on a hairball or something?”

She laughed at her own joke and that he wanted to laugh ~~hysterically~~ along with her made him cough all the more.

“I'm fine,” he managed to bite out once his fit had calmed. Sabine patted gently at his back, albeit with a modicum of reluctance. He turned to her.

“What—” Voice considerably lowered though no less panicked, he repeated, _“What did you call me?”_

He held his hands to his face to see if his mask had slipped. It was intact. He _felt_ it was, so how did she…?

“I'm sorry,” she deflated when when she approached him and he unconsciously took a step back. “I didn't mean to frighten you.”

“I'm not frightened.”

She glanced down, emphasizing how it hadn't escaped her that his shaking hadn't relented.

“It’s all right, Adrien,” she said again.

Her words were meant to comfort but it was as if she was underwater and everything was warbled. His name, his _civilian_ name, falling from her lips was like a buffer against rationalization, and it had him blanching. She flinched.

He clenched his fists and took a deep breath, then two, then three—till the gallop of his heart faded to a steady tread and his trembles abated.

“Are you going to kick me out, now?”

She shook her head. “Why would I do that?”

“You know who I am,” he lamented. “That's dangerous.”

She smiled. “Is it now?”

“It's not funny,” he whispered, looking down. “If Hawkmoth finds out about you and what your family means to me, and god forbid something happened to Marinette and _mon dieu—_ ” he returned his attention to her. “Who else knows? Does _Marinette_ know?”

Sabine shook her head. “Just me, as far as I'm aware.” He breathed a sigh of relief before regarding her with oblique intent. “So… how did _you?_ ”

“Well, it's less clear when you're transformed. But after?” she cocked her head. “I think modeling the jacket was a bit of a giveaway,” he blushed. “The hair is pretty notable. Your eyes, too.”

He gaped. “Lots of guys have blond hair and green eyes!” he defended.

“I suppose that's true.” She laughed, before fixing him with an austere stare. “But they don't care for Marinette the way _you_ do.”

He didn't know how to answer that—partly because he was embarrassed that he was so transparent.

Mostly because it was _true._

“Adrien…” Sabine started, glancing at Marinette and Tom from her periphery to make sure they were otherwise occupied. “What happened just now?”

“I'm always breaking things,” he confessed, as if that were explanation enough. And maybe it was because the sorrow in her eyes almost had him coming undone.

 _I don't want to break_ her, he wanted to shout. _And I don't wanna break my own heart too._

Because falling in love was the easy part—falling in love with the unattainable was even easier. He knew the outcome was bleak and so it was simple to be able to put on his armor of innuendo and impavidness and say it was all right that they didn't love you back.

After… after was what scared him. _Reciprocation_ scared him. Because he was broken, was always going to _be_ just that little bit damaged and a step behind and he didn't want anyone else to get caught in the crossfire that was his internal turmoil. Because he was lost, always lost, and he didn’t know how to be enough for someone else.

“Hey,” she said, derailing him from the dangerous path his thoughts had veered to. “Who needs a set of four plates when we're only three.” She shrugged and added, conspiratorially, “I've been dying to replace these sets anyway but Tom didn't see the point. Now, you've given me the perfect excuse. I mean, they're older than Marinette—no wonder this one broke!”

His heart lifted as they joined in merriment. What was it about the women in this family? Would he forever have a weakness for dark hair, blue-eyed females?

(If that was the case, then he hoped never to be strong)

“Besides,” she shared, everything about her so far removed from her previous melancholy that his own worries of insecurity and being discovered evanesced into a plane of halcyon where no one and nothing that would ever hurt him, could—if only ephemerally. “In my experience, the best people in life are the ones who are unafraid to show their imperfections.”

(And who was he kidding? The halcyon wasn’t some undiscoverable plane—it was _here_ )

“So own them, darling,” she cupped his cheek, and he found himself leaning into her touch, starved as he was for motherly affection. He clutched her forearm as if for dear life, and lapped at her every word when she declared, “You'll find that the cracks are where the light shines the brightest.”

He let a little more than a fleeting moment pass as he considered her words. Could it really be that simple? _Own it,_ she advised.

“Thank you,” he sniffed.

“Thank you for helping me with the dishes,” she grinned lopsidedly. She may have been thanking him for his assistance but he was adamant he had been the one to gain the most from their encounter.

He disposed of the broken plate and cleared the sink while Sabine put the rest of the dishes away. After, she jutted her chin towards the living room.

“Shall we see what the other two are up to? Before they get swallowed by the TV?”

Thankfully, no such misgivings had arisen since, caught up as they had been in their conversation, it slipped their notice when Marinette and Tom had moved on from the game console to their music player. Charles Aznavour's rich, buttery tones wafted from the crisp speaker as he sang _Il faut savoir._

Even with the cramped space of the apartment, the father and daughter duo found a way to make a dance floor of the living room, moving in some semblance of a...waltz? ‘Gifted’ as they were with two left feet.

He chuckled and hoped the mask hid the way his eyes shone. Then again maybe not, if it meant Marinette’s countenance vivified at the sight of it.

“You’re here!” Tom bellowed, spinning her outwards with a little _too_ much exuberance and so she fell back against the cushions.

“Tom!” Sabine shouted just as Tom squawked his apology and Marinette expelled a cute, “oof!” when she landed. Adrien pressed his lips together and tried not lay the adoration thick but—she didn't exactly make it easy.

She jarringly chided her father before expelling a greeting so cheerful and sweet, you would think they hadn't seen each other in years instead of the scant few minutes they were actually apart. She moved a smidge so there was room on the sofa for him even with her limbs aslant.

What he wouldn't give to have a camera right now, to capture the flush that burgeoned the apple of her cheeks because it was from exertion and not bashfulness, for once… to immortalize the way her eyes sparkled when she looked at him like this—unharmed and glowing and arrantly, confoundingly, heart-stoppingly _beautiful._

He crouched on his haunches so he was eye-level with her and lightly swiped the tip of his finger across the length of her bangs. Her sigh was a cool breeze against his lips.

“Hello, Marinette.”

She sat up, affecting a severe air as she enounced, “I'm surprised you remember my name.”

He gestured at her to scoot over. He hunkered beside her with his legs crossed, one arm spread atop the back of the couch while the other was propped against his thigh. He rested his head on his hand and raised an eyebrow at her.

“What? Why?”

“You and my mom looked so cozy,” she teased. “I thought you'd forgotten me.”

“Oh, are you jealous then?” he shot back in acute delight. “You don't need to worry,” he leaned into her space so he could whisper in her ear, lips ghosting her skin as he murmured, “You're impossible to forget.”

She rolled her eyes then looked away, but not before he caught her gratified expression. He beamed as he pulled away.

Chiming laughter and gruff chortles had the pair of _them_ turning to the pair _before_ them. The sight they were greeted with was nothing short of miraculous, as Tom expertly twirled Sabine athwart the room, ebbing and flowing in a dance they appeared to have been doing since they were born.

“How come you can dance with mom that way and not me?” Marinette demanded haughtily. Truth be told, he was glad she asked. He was bewildered at the grace with which Tom maneuvered Sabine when not minutes ago, he and Marinette had been fumbling about like gravity was personally out to get them and they were desperate to outrun it.

“Don't you know?” Tom said before he twirled Sabine, first out then into his arms. “Life is but one, long dance. Sometimes you take a wrong turn somewhere and swing out of beat.” He dipped Sabine, “But other times, if you sway at just the _right_ moment—” and, slowly, they ascended together, “—you might bump into someone who's willing to move just that little bit off beat with you, and you find you've made a rhythm that's all your own.” 

Till they were in perfect alignment, her back to his chest and his chin nestled atop her head.

“Each step you take is a step towards that person so... _dance._ Make your move and make it right. Hell, make the wrong one too! Just…”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“Just—just _what?_ ” He goaded, endeavoring to limit his impatience as he leaned towards the man.

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Papa,” she rebuked but he could tell she was just as engrossed as he was.

Tom smirked.

“Just _dance._ ” His lips whittled into a softer, more profound, grin. “You do your utmost to ensure you lead a successful life, but all that won't mean a thing without the right partner by your side.” He locked eyes with Sabine. “So, don't forget to dance.”

Now it was Edith Piaf's poignant voice crooning her Hymn to Love that filtered through the spaces between their bubble of conversations. Sabine elegantly twisted in Tom's arms so she could rest her head onto his chest. In absolute synchronization, they sighed, and it was the purest sound of rapture he had ever heard.

Then Tom threw them, what he must have thought was, a sly wink. “Do you?”

_What?_

Adrien glanced at Marinette and saw she was just as baffled as he was. With an eyebrow raised, he conveyed with her, as if to say, _he's_ your _dad—you ask him what he means!_ to which she rebutted with her arms crossed and a pointed, _if you're such a curious cat, you ask him yourself!_

(Though, admittedly, the _curious cat_ was something he added for his own amusement)

He relented though they both turned to Tom.

“Do… we what?”

“Have the right partner?”

Without thought, his eyes found Marinette's. Marinette—who tripped even as she stood, whose belongings were forever escaping her grasp as they sprawled whenever she careened about the pavement. Marinette—whose maladroit affliction had faded when he held her in his arms and danced with her that _one_ time.

They had fallen into each other’s gaze long enough that more than a beat had passed. Tom reverted his gaze to Sabine and the two were lost in a world of their own, a lambent pendulum as they flowed in and out of each other's gravity.

_Do you have the right partner?_

He had always thought Ladybug was his, through thick and thin. In some ways, she _was_ the right partner—but he was looking for someone who was right, not just in some but in _all_ the ways it mattered.

Tom's words reverberated like a gong in his head.

_Do you have the right partner?_

When Kagami had been Akumatized, Ladybug stowed him away to safety whereas he and Marinette teamed up to defeat the Evillustrator. When he needed advice, he asked Marinette. Marinette had given him his very own lucky charm. It was him and Marinette who worked so well together in Ultra Mega Strike even when they were in opposition, only him and Marinette who had been in complete awareness of Lila's falsehoods, Marinette that he went after in the skating rink.

Marinette, Marinette—in everything it was _Marinette._

_Do you have the right partner?_

Looking at her, an ethereal beacon amongst the fluorescent and lamp lights as she watched her parents fall in love all over again, he wished he had the courage to speak up. For though he had broken down his thoughts and discovered the answer was within his grasp, he would have liked to dance with her just then… just once more—if only to be certain.

(When really, what he verily wanted was to build himself around her and hold her close)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a part 3. I have no self-control lol.
> 
> ALSO, THAT MARICHAT SNEAK PEEK THO??? I SWEAR TO GOD I AM STILL CRY-SCREAMING ABOUT IT, IT IS SO SIMILAR TO MY VISION FOR THIS FIC IT'S LIKE I DREAMT IT AND IT LITERALLY CAME TO LIFE RIP ME


	3. goodnight n go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interrupted kisses are _so_ overrated... don't you think?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire chapter was driven by the song Goodnight and Go, both the original version by Imogen Heap and the remix by Ariana Grande, which—if you know the song—will be pretty obvious here. Sorry for the long wait! Hope everyone had a nice holiday!

"Are you sure you have everything?”

He smiled.

“Yes.”

“All your clothes?”

He held up two double-packed doggy bags.

“And my shoes.”

“The macarons?”

“Ube with a yema filling?” He held up his other hand where a pink box with the signature Dupain-Cheng stamp lay, brimming with the sweet, Parisian-Asian fusion treats. “Right here!”

“What about Plagg?”

She got him there but instead of admitting it, he laughed and kissed her dulcetly on the cheek.

_“Madame,”_ Sabine groaned but leaned into the peck. “I've had the loveliest time this evening. You can't know how much.”

“Oh, Chat,” she sighed, returning his kiss with two of her own on either side of his cheeks. “You're free to visit any time, I hope you know.”

She hugged him and on the tips of her toes, she whispered in his ear.

“And feel free to use the front door when you do.”

Adrien’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets and he choked on a breath. It was Sabine's turn to laugh.

“We do have _two_ of those, you know,” she teased.

“Cat got your tongue?” Marinette snickered, meandering to his side in a way that told him she had not been privy to her mother's comments, otherwise she would have been flailing alongside him. “Or have you gotten another furball?”

He whined. “I do _not_ spit furballs!”

“With how much you ate,” Tom jested, partaking in the ribbing. “I wouldn't be surprised if one or two of those popped out.”

“Ha- _ha,_ you two are _hiss-_ terical,” he deadpanned. “Truly.”

She smirked. “I _am_ known to be _claw-_ ver, you know.”

He gaped. “Y-you… you punned!”

She smirked and his heart skipped a beat. “I could kiss you!” he blurted.

_“Bon dieu,”_ Tom sighed, shaking his head. “And you would have too, had I not been such a clumsy oaf.”

“Oh, _mamour,_ ” Sabine giggled, patting him on the shoulder in feigned consolation. Tom, as he was wont to do, leaned into her touch wholeheartedly as he buried his face into Sabine's hair and trembled with mock sobs. However, the whimpers emitting from the burly man were undoubtedly the result of crudely suppressed chortles. Somewhere amongst the ceiling beams, a purring cackle was heard.

(Traitors, all of them)

Adrien's (and Marinette's) cheeks stained a lovely red, but then again—what was new?

“Right,” Marinette coughed, determined to ignore her parents if the firm pout she had fixed onto her lips was any indication. With gusto, she grabbed at his shoulder before dragging him to the apartment door. Powerless with his hands otherwise occupied and unwilling to _rendez-vous_ with the floor again so soon, he limped behind her. “It's getting late. We wouldn't want to keep Chat from his own home.”

“I think it might be drizzling too,” Tom commented, setting aside any amusements as he gazed out the windows at the grim skies with concern. Though it wasn't odd for nightfall to descend so quickly at ten in the evening this time of year, the clouds that muffled the blanket of stars over their beloved city of lights was out of the ordinary—an indisputable credit to the unexpected weather. “Would you like to stay the night?”

“‘Would you like to stay forever?’” Sabine quoted.

Marinette groaned even as Adrien barked a surprised laugh.

“They're quoting Mulan now,” Marinette shook her head, her hands on her hips as she appraised her parents in exasperation. “It really _is_ time to leave.”

“I don't know, Marinette,” Tom replied, surveying him with a critical eye, though there was a sparkle to his look. “I could teach you how to make those macarons, eh? We could make a man out of you yet, Chat Noir.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Or, at the very least, a _baking_ man.”

“ _Mon dieu,_ Papa,” Marinette grumbled, but he could tell she was just as tickled. Adrien himself was sorely tempted to accept their offer. It wasn't as if ~~anyone~~ anything was waiting for him in the mansion, and if it was down between the cold and wide yet confining walls of his room or the sparse yet warm and cozy dwelling of the Dupain-Chengs, there was no choice. Still, he had a whole mantle of duties and responsibilities that came with wearing the Agreste name. So though he very much yearned to stay, this was not his home. And as much as he liked to pretend—every minute he was here, it was glaringly obvious that he did not belong.

(Despite the voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Marinette, telling him how much he _did_ )

“It would be an honor,” he acquiesced briefly, “but with the weather like this… I think I need to head back.”

“We understand,” Sabine said, holding Tom's hand as they walked him and Marinette to the door. “Another time, perhaps? The offer for baking lessons stands, of course.”

“I will _definitely_ hold you to that _paw-_ mise!” He replied with an enthusiasm he could barely contain. Despite his reservations, if this night had taught him anything it was that should any of them offer, he would never pass up an opportunity to spend time with the Dupain-Chengs—the chance to learn a new skill was just an added bonus.

They all shared one more raucous laugh that was sure to get the neighbors talking, but they didn't care. What were a few complaints compared to the endless fun that could be had when you were with people whose company you thoroughly enjoyed?

It was made this closing bittersweet. Because how could one say goodbye to that which—to those _who_ had—filled him with such unfettered merriment it was almost like he had been alight?

(Spoiler alert: you could, but _damn_ if it was easy)

With a final wave to both, the door to the Dupain-Cheng abode closed with a finality that felt like the end of a book—like all loose knots had been tied except the for the one directly to your heart, because you had grown so attached to the characters in the story, it left you satisfied yet strangely empty too, for how can the world keep on turning just the same when you had been forever changed?

He lingered for that very reason. And it was also for that reason that he heard a girlish ‘whoop!’ despite the thickness of the wood that stood between him and Marinette's parents. Tom's booming laughter followed.

“Wait, so does that mean we're team Chat Noir now?”

_Well,_ he mused. _He_ certainly hoped they were.

Sabine giggled. “Oh, Tom.”

“But I thought we were team…”

Before he could hear the end of that sentence, however, and have it finally revealed to him who it was Marinette had fallen for, she called for him.

_“Minou?”_ she asked, her head the only visible part of her between the slats of the balustrade—that and her roguish smile.

“You _could_ stay,” she continued. He swallowed the lump in his throat that had formed itself into a ‘yes’. He shook himself out of his reverie and followed her, trudging miserably down the staircase as if they were a mountain and not an ordinary flight of stairs. He had gone two steps below her when he noticed that he couldn't hear her light gait trailing behind him. He paused and looked up at her, one brow raised in the shape of a question mark.

“You were quiet tonight.”

That wasn't strictly true. He had been perfectly sociable, though he understood what Marinette meant. While he had been playful and courteous, there was a certain distance to his actions that he normally reserved for when he was Adrien and hid away when he was Chat Noir. But his axis had tilted, in a way that made both sides grapple for a chance to surface when really, all he wanted was to find a balance within himself. He didn't know how to explain that to her, didn't know if he could even if he had found the words, so he settled for, “I suppose…” he shook his head before shrugging at her. “I was trying to figure out who to be.”

She gasped, horrified. “You didn't have to be anyone but yourself!”

He gave a bitter laugh. “And who is that?” he sighed. “I don't even know, myself.”

She said nothing and he turned away from her, wishing he could shove his hands in his pockets and further shrink from the severity of her stare.

“I do,” she breathed after more than a couple heartbeats. “I know you.”

Confused, he chanced her gaze to find some sort of clarity in her molten, cerulean eyes. “Yeah?”

“For the legitimate first time, I'm starting to.” Her brow furrowed and he itched to sweep the evidence of her frustration till there was nothing but smooth skin and lines and curves that told only of her happiness. “ _Really_ starting to.”

“Would you tell me, then?”

“What fun would that be?” she teased. “You'll figure it out, Chat. You always do.”

_God, you're amazing,_ he thought. In the distance, bells tolled.

Without quite thinking, he asked, “Can I visit you tonight?”

Something flickered along her face.

“I should say no.”

There was no helping the way his shoulders slumped and his face sagged. But with a sigh, he agreed.

“You should.”

“But…”

He held his breath. “...but?”

“But,” she continued. “It's not as if you haven't been before.”

“No,” he repeated slowly.

“And we would just… talk.”

He glared. “Of course.”

“Well,” she pouted. “You did promise more of _later,_ ” she reminded pointedly. He smiled albeit a slight one as he caught on.

“Yes.”

“And my parents _did_ say you could stay the night.”

He bit his lip to contain the enormous grin that threatened to break free.

“They did.”

“There is one… tiny… detail, we're forgetting.”

He cocked his head, curious as a cat. “And that is?”

She smiled crookedly. “I'm in love with someone else.”

He raised an eyebrow again just as he raised himself another step. “Are you _sure_ about that?”

She hummed, though a more serious expression seized her otherwise enthralling features.

“And you're in love with someone else.”

He went up another stair, lured by her gravity and more than willing to fall into her orbit.

“Are _you_ sure about that?” he pronounced with equal weight to his intonation.

“Chat,” she whispered, licking her lips. The movement had not gone unnoticed by him, his eyes tracking its lackadaisical journey along the length of her pink and luscious mouth.

“Marinette,” he sighed softly. “Is it later yet?”

“Come here, and we'll find out.”

And because he was used to taking orders, he did not hesitate. He climbed the final stair, and it brought them to level in ways that felt significantly more than height or step. With this last footfall, he was shedding old mindsets and dropping previous beliefs. With this hindmost leap, he would stand before her, marrow and sinew changed and soul forged anew, bones shifting to make more room and heart expanding in the shape of the girl who captured it—captured _him._

(But was it really a trap when he was so willing to be ensnared?)

He only hoped all that talk about her continuing to be in love with someone else was just that, _talk._ It was difficult to take her words seriously, not when every look she sent him was a living flame against his all ready fervent skin, not when the touch of her hands, tight around his waist, anchored him to her and to which he was very grateful for. He was positive he would float otherwise for so buoyant did he seem in that very moment, his happiness threatening to catapult him to the moon.

_“Je vois de l'amour dans tes yeux,”_ he murmured. _“Alors dans tes yeux je voudrais rester.”_

“Then stay,” she breathed.

His bags and his box fell unceremoniously into a heap at his bare feet but he had no care for them. No, all he was was made of Marinette, as he cupped her face tenderly between his palms, his thumbs caressing lightly at the apple of her cheeks and with her eyes framed by his digits, again—tendrils of familiarity curled along the synapses of his brain, little impulses firing rapidly across his nerves till they were one huge blaze calling out a signal that told him this was Marinette but she was also _more,_ a beacon that wanted to shout, _yes, I know you. I know you, I know you, and we are one and the same._

He didn't want to close his eyes, but he was magnetized to Marinette's every move and at her pace, heavy lids fell over hypnotized orbs. As one, he bent his head just as she rolled to the tips of her toes to meet his waiting lips in a dance that bound lovers for all time.

They were but a period away when a heavy _thud!_ sounded behind him.

Adrien chuckled. With his eyes still shut and voice pitched low so as not to be overheard, he asked, “Your parents are watching from behind me, aren’t they?”

She pressed her forehead to his and tightened her hold on his waist. It was all the answer he needed—well, in addition to the heatedly hushed cry of, “Oh my God, Tom, did you fall _again?_ ”

He nuzzled the crook of Marinette’s neck while she sighed her frustration. Then, with great pain, he lifted his head from the valley of her doughy shoulder so he could shout, _“Bonsoir madame et monsieur Dupain-Cheng!”_

There was a pause, as though they thought they might walk away without answering and thereby pretend they had never been caught in the first place, before a grumpy but all together embarrassed chorus of, _“Bonsoir, Chat Noir...”_ followed.

The door clicked shut (again) and with a final sigh, he extricated himself from Marinette's embrace. She gave him a withering look, though he inherently understood it was directed at her parents and her voice rang clearly in his mind as if she had spoken it right in his ear.

_My parents have the_ worst _timing!_

Hiding a smirk, he bent to pick up his bags, going down three steps once more to retrieve them.

“I should head home.”

When he straightened, Marinette was holding out the box of macarons. A compunctious grin was pasted on her features.

“Let me walk you to the door.”

They reached the bottom of the staircase and through the glass panes of the entrance, he noted the state of the night sky before releasing a hefty groan.

The deluge had returned—full force.

“We all mean it, you know,” Marinette continued, looking amused by his aversion to the weather. “You're welcome to stay here.”

“Careful now,” he replied, tearing his eyes away from the outside so he could focus on Marinette. He made an effort to inject some levity to his voice but there was a sobering undertone to his words as he said, “You give this cat ideas and I'll never leave.”

She laughed, a hand splayed athwart his cheek while she cosseted the edges of his mask, as he found she was fond of doing—a teasing yet careful touch that straddled the line between curiosity and decorum, of do's and don'ts and wills and won'ts, like she was eager to know him, _all_ of him, including the man behind the mask but was waiting for him to let her in.

(Not for long now, he imagined)

“My father did say life was just a dance,” she went on. She placed a feather-light kiss on his cheek and contrary as it was to her actions, he felt the sincerity in her vow even as she stepped away from him.

“You can sway my way any time, Chat Noir.”

He would have kissed her then, but thunder blasted over the skies, jolting him to the reality of his situation. Annoyed beyond belief, it was with agonizing reluctance that he summoned his Kwami who, he found, returned to him in a state of unprecedented bliss that instead of baffling him, only served to further his vexation.

“Where have you been?” he asked him.

“Heaven,” replied the tiny creature in dreamy articulations.

He turned to Marinette for explanation but all she gave him was an enigmatic, if not regretful, smile.

“Will you ever not be a mystery?” he asked aloud, unsure as to whom he was speaking to though he felt it was an appropriate question for both of them either way.

And as he expected, there was no answer. The only reply he was given was Marinette's held out arms, to which he passed his baggage. Plagg was still floating aimlessly above his head, lost in whatever fantasy beheld him, when he snapped with a sulky, “Maybe something waterproof, this time, Plagg? Can you do that?”

“Someone's in a good mood,” he jested, utterly unaffected as usual. “Fantastic,” he muttered, barely refraining a snarl.

“Plagg, claws out!”

He never thought he would reach this day, but it was with all honesty that he wished he could be rid of his suit. It must have shown on his face because then Marinette was there, smoothing the pout from his lips with a gentle brush of her fingers. Just like that, the irritation flowed right out of him.

“Will you be all right?” she asked softly. He nodded, taking his bags from her and holding them in one arm so he could grasp the hand that had been caressing him.

“Be careful,” she warned. He smiled.

“I always am.”

“I know,” she answered, despite the slightly dubious look etched upon her visage. He chuckled. “It doesn't stop the worry.”

His gratitude at her regard was another lingering kiss to her palm, right along the crease of her life line. Without letting him go, she opened the door. Yet it still felt as if a pit opened within him, a chasm to match the distance that would steadily grow between them with every stride, bound and swing he took away from her.

A blast of air hit them followed by a spackle of frigid raindrops despite merely stopping just shy of the threshold. His suit held, Plagg having heard him despite his halved attention. He had little knowledge of cloth despite having essentially grown in the fashion industry, but he assumed the material was a blend of thermal and leather as he seemed impassive to the cold. What little rainfall reached him slid right off the surface of his costume, assuring him that once he succumbed to the cloudburst, he would remain miraculously dry.

Just a little ways behind him, Marinette shivered, gooseflesh making highlands of her skin as they rose in hilly bumps. Still, she had the mind to advise him.

“Stay warm,” she prompted grimly.

With their fingers still entwined, he nudged at her chin with a knuckle before resting the pair of tangled limbs against her chest.

“I’ll try,” he promised with a lopsided grin. _“Mon coeur.”_

They remained clasped at the hands till only the tips of their fingers held adamantly onto their collision, separating only when they reached the brink of her doorway.

_“Mon minou,”_ was all she replied, and for him, for _always—_

It was enough.

The trip home had been blessedly uneventful, his homecoming moreso. Yet, ensconced in his room once he had detransformed and checked that Nathalie nor his father found him missing, he announced, “I feel different.”

Behind him, Plagg snorted.

“You certainly don't look it.”

“I don't think I'm supposed to.”

“And you don’t _sound_ like it, that's for sure.”

“I know, that's why I _feel_ it. Wait,” he shook his head. “What is _that_ supposed to mean? And hey,” he pinned him with a glare, “What happened to you? What were you doing in Marinette's room? You better not have made a mess in there!”

Plagg bared his teeth as he seemed to stifle a growl. “I didn't touch anything that wasn't _mine._ ”

Adrien himself muffled the overwhelming urge to pull at his hair. Frustrated, he repeated with surly resonance, _“What is that supposed to mean?”_

“It means you need to think now, Adrien.”

“About what?”

“Tell me something,” Plagg darted right to his face and he had to take a step back to keep from getting cross-eyed when he looked at the mildly threatening creature before him, taken aback as he was by his expression. He had never seen his Kwami so… _feral._ And he would have been frightened, if he wasn't so achingly confused. He would bear anything right now if it meant some semblance of _clarity._

“You and Marinette were awfully cozy tonight,” he pointed out, voice laden with unnecessary sarcasm. “Could it be _her_ bringing about this change in you?”

“What of it? You don’t approve?”

“What about Ladybug? What about your feelings for her?”

“So that's the issue. You _don't_ approve, then.” Adrien said dryly as he flopped onto his bed. “What does my feelings for Ladybug have to do with Marinette?”

“It has everything to do with Marinette!” Plagg exploded.

“What is up with you tonight, Plagg?” He wondered. He couldn't possibly be hungry all ready? Then again, he should know better than to speak for his Kwami's appetite.

“Two millenniums is a long time to be away from the one you love,” Plagg sighed. “Even for me.”

The sound drew Adrien's gaze, for it was in shades of melancholy he was accustomed to. Plagg was always throwing his seniority around despite every other word out of his mouth relating only to cheese. The idiot he was, he was only now starting to realize that perhaps it was a front, for his Kwami had never appeared so old to him, looking every bit his incomparable age.

“But I thought… I thought Ladybug and Chat Noir were two halves of a whole. I thought that the person behind and in front of the mask were the same. I am Chat Noir and Chat Noir is Adrien.”

“Yes,” Plagg agreed. “And though Ladybug and Chat Noir always found each other,” he said each superhero's name emphatically, “it wasn't always easy for their _civilian_ selves. You have to understand, the world was so different then, Adrien. The strife of today seems miniscule compared to what my charges had to go through, and I'm not diminishing the problems of your generation,” he injected when Adrien opened his mouth to protest. “But people were not as accepting of well, _anything,_ as they are now. Millions were being slaughtered on the daily and for things that were beyond their control—be it religion, race, social class… persecuted for something as simple as _who_ they loved.” He shot him a pointed look. “Just imagine a line between freedom and dogma _._ And imagine being killed if you so much as dared to _toe_ that line, never mind _thinking_ of doing so. Why do you think we keep the Miraculous a secret? Why it's almost impossible to find traces of them throughout history?” Plagg sagged against the pillow next to his head. “Because _that_ was the way of the world more than a thousand years ago. And so my charges, more often than not, chose not to be with their Ladybugs.”

Shocked, he could only shake his head in denial. He threw an arm over his eyes, as if it were enough to block out Plagg's words.

“How—how could they just… give up like that?” Their actions just didn't compute with what he knew about being a Miraculous holder, and his very foundation rocked at the revelation. “How could they choose not to fight?”

“Oh, they fought,” the Kwami muttered darkly before releasing yet another dejected sigh. “But… the world needed them more, and so the world they chose.”

He didn't say anything for more than a couple beats before he settled on, “Wow.”

Adrien swallowed the lump in his throat, suddenly feeling unworthy of the title, Chat Noir. _Mon dieu,_ compared to what his predecessors had endured, what had he done that was worth noting? What had he ever fought for or believed in? What—

“Hey,” Plagg's voice was hushed and mellow. He wedged himself to his cheek so that Adrien was forced to lift his arm away from his face. “I didn't tell you all that so you could spiral,” he teased, even with his somber aura.

“Then why _did_ you tell me all that?” he asked, voice watery.

“Maybe not everything's changed, but it's a whole new world now, Adrien.” His paw drifted to his forehead in comfort. “The choice doesn't have to be so hard.”

“Well it isn't exactly a walk in the park, Plagg,” he huffed then ran a hand over his weary face. “They're both…” were there even any words in the entire history of languages that would encompass either women? “How can I choose? I've been in love with Ladybug for so long, and with Marinette—it's all so new but it also somehow feels all _right._ ” He craned his head up at Plagg, who hovered serenely over him. “Can you be in love with two people at once?”

“No.”

“Then _how—_ ”

_“Adrien,”_ Plagg skimmed his golden tendrils before settling at the nape of his neck.

“You can't be in love with two people at once,” he whispered.

“I can't be in love with two people at once,” Adrien repeated, slowly, and again—his brain lit up as thousands upon thousands of impulses jumped along his synapses, every nerve burning with recognition.

“It's time to think now, Adrien.” Plagg pressed his paw firmly against his skin. “It's time to _choose._ ”

“I can't be in love with two people at once,” he said, louder. And just like that—

“Because I'm _not_ in love with two people at once.”

—everything, _clicked._

He always thought this moment would come to him in an explosion; in bursts of colors, a heat of the moment or a grand gesture. He would never have envisioned it could be as simple as this—a piece of the puzzle falling into place.

With a laugh, he sat up.

“We need to go!” he exclaimed.

“We needed to go since _yesterday,_ " Plagg whined. “But better late than never, I suppose.”

“What, no bartering for camembert first?”

He shrugged.

“There are more important things.”

It was one of the most ~~controversial~~ serious statements to ever come from his Kwami's mouth but the surprise was buried beneath his excitement—he could _not_ stop laughing. He jumped off the mattress and didn't bother to put on any shoes, just his Marinette-made hoodie and the black sweatpants he elected to change into when he arrived earlier. He did have the presence of mind to grab his mask and tie it on before transforming. Plagg was only too gleeful to comply.

Anyone who happened to glance out the window would see nothing but a black blur as he passed, Adrien had never moved so quickly and so smoothly, too. He did not feel the rain, largely in part due to Plagg's modifications but he mostly attributed it to the joy that overflowed from him making him feel only good and wonderful things despite the downpour.

(And so the black cat _can_ have good luck, after all)

When he arrived at Marinette's round window, it was to dim lights and no movement, apart from the covered lump on her loft bed. Maybe he should have taken it as a sign not to enter, but he had never been particularly skilled at reading those anyway (or it wouldn't have taken him _this_ long to figure things out).

It was a little concerning, how easy it was to enter her room. Given who was living in it, he needn't have worried of course but, as she said, it didn't make it go away. As it was, it was a conversation for another day—because he had that luxury now, to have more conversations for _later,_ as they were so fond of saying.

Balancing on her windowsill, he whispered, “Marinette?”

“Chat?” she whispered back as she popped up from beneath her covers so only her head was visible. “ _Allez!_ Get in before you flood my room!”

With a chuckle, he did so with care so as not to wake her parents, landing on noiseless feet and detransforming as he did so only to almost take back his progress when his bare feet landed on her floor.

Biting back a yelp, he raced to her loft and was grateful that she had tucked herself away once more as it was one less thing for her to hold over him. He was convinced she would have toppled over in laughter if she had witness him then, slinking inelegantly as he was to her side.

“ _Putain!_ Why is it so cold?”

“The heating may be down again,” Marinette grumbled. “It's an old building, it happens sometimes. My dad will take care of it in the morning.”

Nevertheless, he found his chuckles returning as he ran his hands over her sheets, albeit more than a little mindful of where they roamed.

“Where are you? I can't see you over this mountain.”

Without warning, a blanket was thrown over his head and beneath the darkness of her comforter, her eyes were the light.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” he echoed, his eyes surely glistening just as bright.

“You came,” she said, sounding almost surprised, as if she were just realizing she was someone worth keeping promises for.

“You said to keep warm,” he shrugged, keeping his tone flippant when he felt anything but, just to keep his nerves at bay because now that he was here, so had a thread of doubt appeared. “It's hard to do that alone, you know.”

_What the hell am I talking about?_

His agitation multiplied.

She raised an eyebrow. “Where's Plagg?”

“Oh, you know,” he waved a hand vaguely behind him, then dropped it. He was sure she knew what he meant, the Kwami having darted to Marinette's purse the moment they had touched down.

“Is it… is this okay?” Despite his mounting tension, he added—albeit reluctantly, “Should I not have come? Do you… want me to leave?”

“No!” she shrieked and he had to lean back as the sound was so contained within their downy fort. Calmer, she reiterated, “No, no. This is fine. You're fine.” She pitched her head briefly over her fleece. “I just don't want my parents to wake up and freak out,” she said once she returned.

“Oh,” he breathed a sigh of relief before hiding a smirk. “I'm pretty sure they know anyway, so—”

“They _what?_ ” she exclaimed in a voice that may have been a decibel higher than she intended it to be, if her goal was to keep his presence hidden from her parents.

(Though the rainfall did a pretty good job of quelling any wayward noises)

“At least, I think your _mom_ does,” he placed a hand at the back of his neck. “You know, I never actually got to clarify, so…”

Marinette looked mortified as she landed in a face down atop her pillow. She groaned and he rubbed circles onto her back, even as he laughed.

“It's not funny,” she griped. She turned to him with a frown. “How are you not panicking?”

He shrugged. “The way your mom said it, I think she trusts me. I mean, with a face like mine—why wouldn't she?” While he waggled his eyebrows, Marinette's frown further deepened, unimpressed. He laughed some more, recovering his former ebullience in waves of giggles that seized his body. With a little more effort, he infused sobriety into his pronouncement so as to ease her mind.

“But more than anything, Marinette, she trusts _you._ ”

A pensive expression dominated her dainty features as she mulled over his words.

“It doesn't make it any less embarrassing,” she huffed. “But I can live with that.”

With a (hopefully) final chuckle, he settled onto his back beside her. Marinette burrowed onto her side, facing him. She yawned.

“Tired?”

She shook her head contrarily. It was his turn to toss a disbelieving brow her way. She sighed. “It's the cold,” she admitted through gritted teeth, as if she were confessing a weakness. Perhaps it may as well have been, given who she was. “It makes me drowsy. _Sometimes._ ”

“Why am I not surprised?” he muttered. She cocked her head in quiet inquiry. In lieu of an explanation, he mirrored her position then opened his arms.

“Get over here.”

She bit her lip. “Are you sure? I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable…”

_Trust me,_ he wanted to say. _We've been in worse tangles than this._ But he kept such thoughts to himself as he found that he was rather enjoying his furtiveness—at least for the time being—if only because the more he talked and looked at her, the more he saw the resemblance, and he wondered how he could have missed it for so long—how he could have missed _her._

_“Get over here,”_ he repeated in a tone that brooked no argument. Without added objection, she snuggled to his side of the bed. Adrien drew her hands to his back, beneath his hoodie, and though he hissed at the temperature (she was _not_ kidding about being cold!) and there were minor protestations from the lady herself, he ultimately had no trouble wrapping her arms around him. He arranged the blanket just under her chin and right by his shoulder, before winding his own arms at her waist. He purred, a long and satisfied sound.

“What a wonderful place to be,” he sighed, looking down at her as he spoke.

Marinette scrunched her nose. “My room? With the broken heater? Really?”

He laughed. “I was thinking more like, _your arms._ ”

Her infamous blush made an appearance then, her mouth rounding into a soundless _oh._ Abashed, she didn’t say more after that.

“Marinette?” he began, breaking the pleasant pocket of silence that had overtaken them.

He sensed more than heard her responding hum, tiny reverberations that ran along the length of his body all the way to their entwined feet. Were he not all ready soothed from her warming skin, then the sound of her contentment alone would have banished any remaining frost he might have felt.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

It took a beat for her to answer her affirmation.

“Sure,” she whispered through a stuttered breath.

“I like you,” he murmured into her ear with a Cheshire cat grin. “I really, really do. And I _hope,_ ” he pulled away just enough so he could look into her eyes, “you like me too.”

“I thought you were in love with Ladybug,” he swallowed the bubble of laughter that bullied its way to his throat. Was that… was that _jealousy_ he detected? “I thought you were destined to be together.”

“Here’s the thing,” he shifted onto his back, taking her with him so that her upper half was draped along his torso. “Ladybug and I are a team. One could even say that we couldn’t possibly function without one another. We complete each other.”

Confliction wrangled itself onto her visage.

_“But,”_ he grazed the puckered line of her eyebrows. “It’s you.”

She shook her head. “ _What’s_ me?”

“Everything,” he asseverated with devout honesty. “A part of me will always love Ladybug. But you? It’s _you_ I want. You, I _choose._ Every day, I choose you. Every time. Anywhere and anyhow, I don't care what They say.

"I. choose. you. Beyond doubt and beyond reason, I choose you. Without thought, without question, without fail and... without regret."

He cupped her face, affectionate hands catching any obstinate tears from falling any further from her chin.

“I’m not fond of the idea that there are forces out there beyond my control who get to decide who I be with. That is mine to make. That is _my_ choice and no one else’s. And I choose you.

"It’s you, Marinette,” he was babbling, he knew, but he couldn’t _stop_. “It’s always been you.”

“Chat Noir,” she hiccuped, “I need to tell you something—”

“Kiss me,” he asked desperately. “Please, I need to—”

He didn’t know what the end of that sentence would be but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. With a sob, Marinette dipped her head, and what little distance remained between them evaporated at the touch of her lips to his.

He expected fire—he expected dynamite and orchestral music and fireworks. But again, the reality far superseded his fantasies because _this_ was so much better than anything he could have conjured.

Fire became the heated flesh of her back as his fingers inched a path up the length of her spine. Dynamite became the caterwaul of thunder while the staccato beat of the torrential raindrops against her window pane became their harmony. Fireworks… _fireworks_ was the way lightning twirled along her skin each time he deigned to open his eyes, illuminating her form so that she shone like a fallen angel above him, come to save him from himself.

For the most part, he let Marinette dictate the kiss—pulling when she pushed, bending as she molded herself to him even more, mouth opening at the slightest prod of her tongue till they were a knotted choreography of intimacy—because now he understood, _truly_ understood, that _life_ was a dance, and his every misstep led to every quiver which led to every spin till he was waltzing to his perfect partner. Choosing Marinette meant the calming of his senses… a tilted world returning to its proper axis.

Somewhere along the way they had swiveled so that he was on top of her, her legs buckled unyieldingly around his hips. He caressed one of her calves while the other followed the line of her arm where he delighted in the goosebumps that rose in his wake. She propped herself on her elbows and so Adrien drew back on his haunches till she was seated on his lap, the blankets pooling below them in a jumbled stack. It gave her added height as she towered over him. She ran the fingers of one hand through his undoubtedly messy hair, nails scratching cautiously at his scalp. Sparks of pleasure tingled down his spine. She kissed his forehead, then, lips moving sleepily over his skin.

“I need to tell you something.”

“I know,” he sighed, buzzing with tranquility.

“I don’t know how you’ll react.”

He smiled. “Something tells me I all ready know.”

A distressed noise escaped her so he eased her grievance with another languid kiss, tiny suckles of her upper lip and bottom lip, till she was chasing after him when he pulled away. She groaned a different sort of unsatiated need.

“In any case,” he dropped his forehead onto her chest before pressing a chaste kiss there. “Nothing you say will ever make me not want you, Marinette.”

Her hands, which had found themselves in his hair, tightened about the golden tendrils at the nape of his neck. He wanted to wax more poetic about how everything ended and everything began with her, but then—she unleashed a jaw-cracking yawn. He mewled a laugh, laying her gently back on her bed, her hair spilling like shimmering ink across the width of her pillow and framing her pale skin so that she looked like the moon in the middle of a starless night.

“Rest now,” he advised, propping himself on an elbow at her side. She whined her protest and so he trailed kisses from her brow to her eyelids, the tip of her nose and her cheek, then to the corner of her mouth. “The moon will set and the sun will rise and I will be here tomorrow.”

She hesitated for a fraction before asking, “Promise you'll still want me in the morning?” a quavering in her voice.

“Promise to want you forever, if you'll let me.”

She gave him a long, surveying look, a light entering her eyes as she reached some sort of conclusion.

“I know you,” she expelled slowly, susurrantly, one hand to his heart, the other edging at the bottom of his mask. He smiled.

“Sleep now,” he bid her. “We have time.”

She extended her arms to him.

“Get over here,” she commanded.

“As my lady wishes,” he replied. He situated himself into the arch of her neck, nosing at her inherent chocolate chip cookie and vanilla scent to lull him to serene slumber.

"You're right," she mumbled sluggishly.

Above him, a whizz of cold air before the blankets were tucked around him. All the while, Marinette’s arms obstinately remained around him as if they were bound as one, her breaths even and the drum of her heart a steady and reassuring lullaby beneath his ear.

"It's easier to stay warm when you aren't alone."

He smiled.

_Was it really this easy?_ he wondered, as he fought the hypnotic lethargy that blustered to pull him under. Perhaps it wouldn’t always be. Perhaps in the light of day, things will seem different. But for now, he was certain—from the nails of his toes to the roots of his hair, from his nerve endings and his tendons and his cartilage, from his body to his mind to his soul, he _believed_ —he would bear any sacrifice, he would endure any hardship... so long as at the end of the day.

Shelter would be found in Marinette’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to swanandapirate and feyrearcherons on tumblr! They don't even go to this fandom lol but they took the time to help me with the French translations I needed here.
> 
> _Je vois de l'amour dans tes yeux, alors dans tes yeux je voudrais rester_ = I see love in your eyes, so in your eyes I would like to stay.
> 
> So the bit about the flavor of the macarons is all me, ube and yema are local to the Philippines which is where I'm from and they are _phenomenal_ let me tell you right now. I've never had them in the form of macarons but in any other way they taste amazing so if you ever get your hands on them, you will not be disappointed!
> 
> So like, this has been the longest thing I have ever written for any fandom and I think I lost some steam for this last chapter but I'm very proud to have finished it anyway because I rarely ever do so when I start multichaps. Still, I had a blast writing it and I hope you guys enjoyed reading it too!
> 
> Come say hi to me on [tumblr](www.swishandflickwit.tumblr.com) :)


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